The Key
by LaraRae
Summary: Peter and Neal must solve an art theft from a private members club.  Of course Neal's side project is to obtain a long sought after key to the one place in New York he's always been denied entrance: Gramercy Park.  Some whumpage, Neter bonding, no slash.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: The Key

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with White Collar, just takin' the characters for a spin.

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"Feet. Desk. Now."

"But my feet are on your desk, Peter." Neal smiled up at Peter, who had just walked into his office, after removing his black fedora that had been covering his face. Peter glared back and Neal widened his smile.

"My problem, exactly." Peter swiped at his feet with the folder he was holding. "Has anyone ever told you that-"

"Told me what?" Neal grinned back at him, as he put his hat back on and got up from the leather chair.

Peter shook his head, "Nevermind."

Neal shrugged, walked around the desk and sat down. "You know…I've been working here awhile now, Pete. When do I get a comfier chair?"

"If you call me Pete again, your comfiest chair will be on the bus ride back to prison. Now, would you focus?" He sat down.

"I am focussed. I'm focussed on why you really don't like the nickname Pete."

Neal received the look again. "Childhood bully?" he suggested.

Angrier still. He could always tell when he'd pushed Peter to that very fine line between lightly amusing and severely pissed off. He was quickly approaching it. Maybe just one more.

"Bad ex-girlfriend story?"

"Neal-"

"Okay, okay" Neal put up his hands. "What have we got?" _Please don't be mortgage fraud or any of the other limitless boring things they'd been doing all week._

"Schweres Rot." Peter tossed the file folder across the desk at him.

Neal raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to grab the file. "Kandinsky?"

"The only."

"Actually –"

"His grandson doesn't count." Peter interrupted.

"Great grandson." Neal paused and pressed his lips together.

"Just say it."

Neal raised his shoulders up slightly, "I think he counts. He's an artist. His name's Kandinsky."

"Well it's a good thing my opinion is more important than yours in this office."

Neal felt his face fall for just a moment before he slapped on another smile as Diana walked in to the office with Jones. There was hope.

"You wanted to see us, boss?" Diana asked, touching the surface of Peter's desk as Jones closed the door behind them.

"Diana!" Neal exclaimed. Her eyes narrowed as they looked at him. "Kandinsky. One, or two?"

Diana furrowed her brow for a moment, "I'm going to assume this has something to do with the case?"

"Just ignore him." Peter waved his hand.

"Two." Jones spoke up.

"Jones! My man!" Neal could feel himself grinning.

"Should I even ask?" Diana asked, looking towards Peter.

"Nope. Just Neal being Neal." Peter handed Jones and Diana folders of their own. "Art theft. A Kandinsky. Stolen from –"

"The National Arts Club." Neal smiled widely and sat up a bit straighter. He felt Peter's eyes on him and finally turned.

"How…Why..?"

Neal puffed his cheeks and let the air out slowly. "Full sentences, Pete."

Maybe that was a bit much, Neal thought as he watched Peter's face turn red. The _look_ – the slightly amusing one that reminded Neal of a teacher he'd had in high school who continuously chided him – became more pronounced. Yeah. Too far. Time to surrender. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulder, "I might have heard…once…where it mysteriously disappeared to."

"Any particular _reason_ for that interest?" Peter glowered.

Neal puffed out his cheeks again, raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Nope. No reason. Just heard a rumour. Kept it in mind for..You know. This."

"Uh huh. I might have believed you if it hadn't disappeared from the market over five years ago. Oh, and if I didn't know you."

Neal redirected, "So." He swivelled his chair to face Diana and Jones.

"The National Arts Club – that's down in Gramercy, right?"

Neal felt himself relax – minutely – as Peter shifted his gaze back to Diana.

"Yes. Number fifteen Gramercy Park."

"Right beside the Players' Club." Neal added. Another look from Peter. Neal nodded his head slightly, "I'm just going to shut up now."

"Pleading the fifth again?"

"Don't be silly, Peter. I never pled the fifth. I simply exercised my Miranda Rights."

"I remember it a lot differently."

Neal grinned and shrugged.

Peter shook his head and went back to looking at the file. "Kandinsky's painting Schweres Rot was stolen sometime between yesterday evening after five and this morning before nine from the NAC. Security was tight – good alarm system, no power failures or failed entries. In other words, no forced entry."

"In other words, no clue how it disappeared." Jones remanded.

"Kind of. There is one member, fairly new to the club. Randal Stevens. His name popped up during a screening this morning for an assault ten years ago."

"Not exactly a strong lead, but somewhere to start." Diana smiled.

"Exactly. Neal and I are about to head over there to talk to the President, see if he knows anything about Stevens."

Neal sat up so suddenly he almost fell out of the chair. Three pairs of eyes landed on him and Neal could feel his cheeks turn red. "What?"

"Spit it out."

"It's nothing. Really" Neal blurted out.

"Uh huh. Don't make me leave you here to sort through cold cases."

Neal bit his lip. "Fine. I thought…Maybe, that we might get to see Uma Thurman."

"Let's hope not. We don't need Miss Thurman, delightful as she is, swooning over your baby blues and following you like a lovesick puppy." Peter rolled his eyes.

Neal grinned, "Peter. I'm embarrassed. You really think I could make Uma swoon over me?"

"Not on my watch. You're now officially ordered not to within twenty feet of her."

"Because you think I could-"

"Neal."

"Really? Hmm." Neal nodded his head, pleased.

"I think you've inflated his ego, boss." Diana smirked.

"I think his ego was already inflated. So inflated it's about to pop, and I hope I'm the one to pop it."

Neal raised his eyebrow.

"That sounded dirty, didn't it?"

Neal pressed his lips together and raised both his brows. "Nope. Not at all."

Jones grinned from the corner. "You want us to follow you over to the club, or keep digging?"

"Keep digging for now. Even if it is Stevens we're going to need more proof then a ten year old conviction."

They both nodded and left the office. Neal felt something hit him in the forehead and picked up a crumpled sticky note from his lap, holding it up. He gave Peter a questioning look.

You're still thinking about her, aren't you?"

"Nope."

"Yeah. Right. Seriously Neal. This is a high profile place, lots of big names. Don't go stepping on anyone's toes – they aren't going to be as forgiving as me. Something goes wrong there and they put up a big fuss to Hughes, well.."

"Yeah, yeah. Same old story. Back to prison for me."

Peter nodded solemnly. "Ready?"

"Can we get coffee on the way?"

"Coffee's right over there. I'll give you thirty seconds."

"Aww, Peter. Don't make me drink that stuff."

"Stuff? It's coffee. Normal coffee that normal people drink."

Neal made a face. "The normal coffee that normal people drink tastes like it came from-"

"A civet's butt?"

"No. That would mean that it's _good_ coffee." Neal corrected.

"Why anyone would want coffee made from beans that came from some other mammal's butt is beyond me."

"It's beyond you because you have no taste."

"Have you ever tried it?"

"As a matter of fact, I have."

"Where, In Rome?" Peter asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"A nice little café in Florence, actually. Great little place off a cobblestone walk - about a block from the Ponte Vecchio, actually. Really, Peter. You should take El one day, absolutely – " Neal paused once he saw Peter's face. "Not worth your time. Completely overrated."

"You've been to Florence. Of course you've been to Florence. Why _wouldn't _ you have been to Florence?" He muttered, exasperated.

"We should probably go…Catch some bad guys." Neal nodded his head lightly.

Peter let out a deep breath. "Remember. Twenty feet. Make that fifty."

"Don't you think that's a bit much? What if she is there? Then I couldn't work on this case and I'm pretty sure you want me to work on this case."

"Why are you so sure I want you on the case?"

"No reason." He replied, and after a look added "I'll show you later."

"I don't doubt it."

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**PLEASE R&R! It keeps me driven!**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hey guys – Thanks for all the reviews! This is my first WC fic, so hope I'm doing it justice.

Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar or anything remotely connected to it – no infringement intended.

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As soon as Peter turned on to East 20th Neal found himself craning his neck looking for the black iron gates around Gramercy Park. The car slowed as Peter found a spot and Neal stared in to the park at an elderly couple sitting on a stone bench inside the gates. Those gates, Neal thought. Not high enough to really keep anyone out themselves, but there were also cameras and twenty-four hour security around the park. It was one of two private parks in the city – a place for the well respected and wealthy individuals who lived in the area.

A place Neal had yet to enter, yet a place he had tried to enter. The park eluded him.

"You waiting for a written invitation?" Peter asked, ducking his head back in to the Taurus.

"That would be nice." Neal shrugged, hiding a grin at Peter's unintentional double entendre.

"Uh huh. You'll be waiting awhile for that one. "

"You want the truth?"

"The truth? From you? Sure, give it a go." Peter nodded as Neal removed himself from the car.

"I needed a moment to recover."

Peter laughed, "from what? See a ghost?"

"Nope. Thought I was gonna be one, the way you drive."

And…there's the look. Neal grinned. He had grown fond of that look. He trotted across the street towards the burgundy awning and looked back to find Peter still standing by the car. "What are you waiting for, Pete – a written invitation?"

"At least I could _get _a written invitation." Peter pointed out.

"Obviously you know about that, then."

"That? You mean how you once tried to gain membership to the NAC?"

Neal soured, "Yeah. That thing."

"Hrm. Could you remind me again why you were turned down? I mean, I couldn't possibly imagine why the great Neal Caffrey, brilliant art thief and master forger, couldn't gain membership to such an _exclusive _club. Oh. Right – those last two things aren't really good to have on a resume for this place, are they?"

Neal forced a smile, "Alleged."

"Right. Alleged." Peter finished as he pushed open the heavy glass panelled doors.

Neal stepped inside, leather shoes falling on to the soft plush carpet. Carpet – a good way to estimate someone's wealth. Sure, most people liked to show off in the showing areas of their houses – granite, marble, slate – but consistently, at least in his experience, people preferred carpet in their bedrooms. The plusher the carpet, the fatter the wallet. Neal removed his hat and spun it on his finger as a middle aged gentleman approached.

"You must be Agent Burke." The man smiled, albeit stiffly, as he thrust an arm towards Peter.

"I am, and this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey."

"Pleasure. " He stated, not offering his hand to Neal, though his brown eyes quickly looked him over. Neal glanced to his left and raised an eyebrow at Peter, then turned back to appraise the man. Nice Italian shoes, tailored pants… There it is, Neal thought. Ivory and gold cufflinks – his personal statement of wealth.

"I didn't catch your name." Neal smiled, offering his hand.

"Jeffery Thatcher." He replied, taking Neal's hand.

Neal forced a wider, more charming smile. "Nice cufflinks, Jeff."

"It's Jeffery."

"Gotcha." Neal gave Peter another look, but he wasn't paying attention. Neal wasn't sure if Jeffery was being pretentious, hiding something or offended by Neal himself.

Without a reply the man turned and started walking down the hall away from the front foyer. "We can talk in my office, though I can't speak for too long. I'm expecting a few of our more exclusive members in a little bit."

"We shouldn't be too long, we just wanted to ask a couple questions and take a look around." Peter stated, holding the office door open for Neal.

"Thank you, Peter." Neal nodded his head and took a seat in one of two brown leather chairs. Peter took the chair beside him and started chatting with Jeffery. Neal took the chance to check out the man's business quarters. Pretty small office, considering, but it was a pretty small building. A large refinished stone fireplace was built in to the wall on the right; a large glass desk – papers stacked neatly – split the office nearly in half. Jeffery sat behind it.

He reminded Neal of a Royal Guard, back straight and shoulders stiff.

"What time did you lock up, last night?" Peter inquired.

"Just after five, I set the alarm when I left."

"No problems with the alarm or alarm company lately?"

"We've had a couple false alarms in the past few weeks, but nothing actual entries."

"So the thief, or thieves, could have been testing the alarm for any weaknesses." Peter mused.

"What kind of alarm is it?" Neal asked brightly.

Jeffery opened a top drawer and pulled out a folder, passing it to him. "We're monitored by SafeTech and have a number of integrated systems. Infrared heat detectors, wired glass and door panels, wireless video monitoring and inertia sensors."

"Nothing but the best, apparently." Neal remarked, looking down at the SafeTech pamphlet in his hands.

"This is an exclusive establishment, its members demand security and privacy."

"Understandable." Peter commented. "The alarm didn't go off last night?"

Jeffery shook his head. "No reports from last night."

"Does anyone besides you have the code?"

"Myself and our vice president, Henry Williams."

"Where would we be able to find Mr. Williams?"

"You would have to wait a couple weeks. Henry left for Europe last week."

"And what about Mr. Stevens?"

Jeffery pushed a piece of paper across the desk, "This is his address. Out of respect, you understand, I had to let him know to expect a visit."

"I'd have preferred you hadn't" Peter replied.

"As I said before, our members expect privacy."

"Mhmm. Can we see where the Kandinsky was?"

"Yes. It disappeared from the parlour. You can follow me."

Peter stood promptly, Neal stared down at the pamphlet in his hands, small smile on his lips. "Excuse me, Mr. Thatcher, did SafeTech give any explanation for the false alarms?"

"Yes. There is construction going on in a building behind ours, just off East 19th. They think the inertia sensors detected some particularly strong vibrations from that to set the alarm off."

Neal nodded and followed. "Could you provide us with a list of dates and times of those false alarms?"

"I'll have the company fax it over to your office."

"Your office?" Peter muttered quietly. Neal grinned, "So about that chair."

"Not a chance."

"The painting previously hung over this fireplace."

Neal cringed, hoping they never actually used the fireplace. He could just imagine a great piece of work slowly being destroyed by the heat of the fireplace. Peter didn't seem to notice his discomfort. Of course. "Has it always hung here?"

"For the past few months. As you can imagine, we have accumulated a number of renowned pieces. We like to rotate them a few times a year."

"Of course." Neal said dryly. "Where is it you keep the pieces you aren't displaying?"

Jeffery paused, looking down his long nose at Neal, and in that moment Neal realised that Jeffery knew. _Well that explains the stick up his ass, at least._ "I would much prefer not to disclose that information in front of an art thief."

"Alleged art thief." Neal corrected. _Maybe I should start wearing a sign around my neck so I can stop repeating myself._

"My preference still stands."

"So does mine" Peter interrupted. "I'd like to know where they are and who is monitoring them."

If looks could kill Peter would be dead, Neal thought smugly.

"I'll have that sent to your office as well. Now, if you're finished asking questions I really do have to get ready for our VIP arrivals."

"I thought all your members were _very important people."_ Neal commented.

Jeffery simply glared, giving rise to a smile from both Peter and Neal.

"I'd like to look around a bit more, if you don't mind." Peter walked towards the fireplace without waiting for a reply.

Neal followed, "What are you thinking?"

Peter looked from the empty spot over the fireplace and back to Neal. "I'm thinking this had to be an inside job."

"Because of the alarms?"

Peter nodded.

"I wouldn't be so sure." Neal muttered, fingering the small ledge of the fireplace. He lifted his finger to find it blackened. Closed off, but not cleaned, he mused rubbing his fingers together to make the soot disappear.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain in the car. After we stop for coffee. I know a great little vegetarian place about five minutes from here by the University. They make a great sandwich and a fantastic cappuccino." He paused. "Oh, and if you like ginger ale, they make it fresh with just a bit of honey."

Peter said nothing in response, but made a face. "Okay Jeffery. I think we're okay for now. We'll be in touch."

"I look forward to it." Jeffery flattened his lips.

Like a nail in the foot, Neal thought, studying the man.

"Can I show you out?"

"I think we'll find our way." Peter smiled.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Alright. Now spill" Peter demanded, as soon as they got back in the car with lunch.

"Really? Right now? I can't have lunch first?"

Peter tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "You just want to put it off until the office so you have an audience."

"There's nothing wrong with being proud of your accomplishments, Peter."

"Maybe not in your world, but in mine we call that arrogance."

"Fine line. Besides, I want to work it out in my head a bit more." Neal added.

"Work out the details of the robbery, or your upcoming performance?"

Neal smiled out the side window. "Can't it be both?"

"Not with you. With you it's always glitz and glamour – the show. That's why you sent wine to our surveillance truck. And money, also the money."

"Nope. Not the money, never the money. If, hypothetically of course, I were to commit one of the crimes you seem to think I did it would have been for the people. The accomplishment. And I sent you wine because it was Valentine's Day – I thought you might like to take it home to Elizabeth. I knew that _she _would at least appreciate a fine red."

"Well she didn't – she didn't even get to see it."

Neal drew his chin inwards, "I'm almost offended Peter – did you think I'd poisoned it?"

"Maybe at first, until I realised it wasn't your style. Bugged, maybe, attached haiku mocking me - more likely - but not poisoned. Nope, that puppy's in evidence."

"That was a Chateau Lassegue."

"That means nothing to me."

"You knew enough when we were trying to get Keller."

"Didn't you ever study for a test the night before, ace it and promptly forget everything you'd just learned?"

"I didn't study." Neal shrugged, turning to face Peter.

Peter raised his eyebrows, "Maybe if you had, you'd have made it through high school."

"Ouch, Peter. That hurts. I should clarify – I didn't _have_ to study, my marks were fine."

"Mhmm."

Neal turned away and stared out the window. "Of course you'd know that, if you could locate my high school transcripts, wouldn't you?"

"Care to share?"

"Not really in a sharing mood." Neal shrugged. "Do you think it's still there?"

"What, your high school? Unless you set it on fire I'm going to assume yes."

Neal sighed and threw his head back against the seat, "Not my high school peter, the Lassegue."

"How would I know?"

"Perfectly good bottle of wine sitting in an evidence locker. It's a shame, you know."

"And it will continue to sit there and be a shame, won't it?"

"How would I know?" Neal grinned.

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Please continue to R&R! It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: THANK YOU to my wonderful reviewers – you guys rock. Your encouragement actually got me to finish this (long) chapter early. Yay!

Disclaimer: Don't own anything White Collar related, just like making the characters bend to my muses…

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Neal sat in a chair at the head of the conference table, smiling and swivelling back and forth.

"Did someone give him sugar?" Diana asked, sitting herself down beside Peter.

"Worse, coffee. Okay Neal – we're all here."

Neal grinned and put his hands on the table to stop the motion of the chair. He looked at Peter, who seemed slightly amused but on the verge of being incredibly pissed off. "Okay. Peter – you think this is an inside job, right?"

"You know that I do, genius."

"Anyone else?"

"Inside job's the only way. There was no alarm activation and it's a _good system_." Diana pointed out.

"It's an excellent system" Neal corrected, "but Jeffery – or whoever else was in charge – let SafeTech put a sticker on their door proclaiming to the entire world exactly who monitors their alarms."

"Even if they knew who was monitoring, they wouldn't know the exact system, unless-"

Neal nodded, "Unless they obtained that information from SafeTech."

"So you think it's someone at the alarm company?" Jones asked.

"Nope."

Peter sighed.

"I think it could be any person of above average intelligence who has lived in Manhattan for most of their life. Actually, a group of persons of above average intelligence."

"A group? Most thieves don't like working in groups." Diana pointed out.

"You're telling me!" Neal grinned. "Most thieves, not that I would know any of this, don't like to work in groups unless it's with people they trust and each person in that group has something to offer for the job, and something to lose if the fail their part."

"Okay, okay. So what makes you think it still wouldn't be an inside job?" Peter asked.

"If it was an inside job, all someone would have to do is walk out with the painting. All those members have connections – replace the painting with even a half decent forgery and no one would be the wiser."

"Jeffery and Henry are in the perfect position for that." Peter argued.

"True, though Henry's gone to Europe and Jeffery's genuinely confused and not hiding anything – he's just pretentious."

"Pretentious. How can someone use that word and not automatically fall into the same category? Maybe you're just upset he declined your membership."

Neal rolled his eyes. "I got over that a while ago."

"That's why you were checking out the park when we first got there?"

"I was looking at the Japanese Maple." Neal replied, plastering a confused look on his face.

"Uh huh. Continue."

"Okay, tell me this: Where is the NAC located?"

Peter pushed his lips together, "Neal, if you're wasting –"

"Just answer the question, Peter,"

"Fifteen Gramercy Park."

"Yes, but think more. Think older."

"It's a historical building." Diana said, shuffling some papers in front of her. "It's Samuel Tilden's old house. He was a former New York state governor."

Neal pointed at her, "Yes. Exactly."

Jones leaned back in his chair, "So what? It was a governor's house."

"Tilden ran for president in 1876, after the civil war during the reconstruction period. Tilden also pissed off a lot of people when he unearthed a ring of corrupt judges – he knew this and between that and the upheaval of that period he ensured there were safety precautions, namely an escape plan." Neal smiled widely and spread his hands, looking around the table. Blank stares. "Oh, come on. Really?" Still blank. "With all your resources and brilliant college-educated brain no one discovered that Tilden had an _escape tunnel_ in his house?"

"I'd like to know why _you_ have this information." Peter asked, brows raised.

"Relax, Peter. It's public record."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"Would it help if I said I didn't do it?"

"I know you didn't do it."

"Ah, but did you have to pull my tracker information to make sure?" Neal teased. He glanced at Peter and felt his face fall. "Oh. You still don't trust me? After all this?"

"You know it's not personal, Neal."

"Do I?" Neal asked. He did know it wasn't personal, but it still hurt that Peter thought he'd do something after everything they'd been through. Sure, there had been hiccups but even peter knew those were mostly…_No, no. let's not go there._

"Okay. So the house has a tunnel – "Diana started.

"That runs under the property to East 19th Street." Neal finished.

"Right, but as you said yourself Neal – this is all public record even if it's not general knowledge. I'm sure the tunnel was sealed somehow." She finished.

"It was, with cement, when the NAC first took the house over in 1906."

"Which means the tunnel is irrelevant." Jones pointed out.

Neal was watching Peter's face as he looked over the files in front of him. He knew Peter would get there, it was just a matter of...There it was.

Peter's face lit up with a smile as he looked up, pointing to something on the paper in front of him. "Not necessarily. When we spoke to Jeffery he mentioned there had been some false alarms in the previous weeks –"

"Which the alarm company said was likely caused by construction _behind_ the NAC on East 19th Street –" Neal continued.

"Indicating that SafeTech knew it was the inertia detectors that had set off the alarms." Peter finished, grinning widely at Neal. Neal beamed back. He loved this part.

"So you think the alarm wasn't set off by the construction work, but by someone trying to gain access to the building through the old tunnel?" Diana asked.

"Exactly." Neal leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head and putting his feet up on the desk.

"Hey Einstein, feet off the table." Peter stated.

Neal leaned his head to the side so he could look Peter in the eye with his feet still up. "Take back the high school remarks?"

"Nope." Peter smacked his lips together.

"Caffrey – you think this is your house or something? Feet off the table."

Neal promptly sat up in the chair, catching Peter smirking at him. "Yes sir." He replied to Hughes. Hughes, however, promptly ignored him. "Burke – these were just faxed over to you."

Peter took the papers, "Thank you sir."

"Are those the false alarms?" Neal asked.

Peter nodded, pushing them across the table towards him after a quick glance.

"How's the case going?"

Neal saw Peter glance at him. "We're making progress. Neal just made a break through." Neal controlled his face, refraining from smiling. "Good work Caffrey, but keep your feet off the table."

"Yes sir."

"Okay," Jones continued as Hughes shut the door behind him, "But even knowing all this doesn't narrow down our field of suspects. Since that information is public record it could be anyone who came across that information and wanted access to the club."

"There's also a matter of the other alarm system components – like the infrared heat sensor." Peter pointed out.

"Emergency blankets," Neal said, then turned to Jones. "I think we should be asking ourselves _why now_? Why _only _the Kandinsky and nothing else? There are a lot of valuable pieces in that club – so why not take anything else? All the planning and time just for one painting?"

"Emergency blankets?" Peter redirected.

"They're meant to keep the heat in. With a little carbon dioxide a heat signature could be masked, and it's not like the thieves had far to go." Neal pointed out.

Peter held up his hand. "Okay, back a minute. Again, I'd like to point out that you shouldn't know this stuff –"

"But this is why you _hired_ me Peter."

"_I _ didn't hire you – the FBI is using you as a consultant - and I highly doubt this knowledge was acquired after the fact."

"Tomatoes, tomahtoes." Neal waved his hand to the side.

"What about the wireless cameras?" Diana pointed out.

"When we get a chance to look at the footage I'm guessing we're going to see a whole lot of nothing."

"It's not like they could just cut a wire – these broadcast and record wirelessly."

Neal smiled. "I have a…friend who would say that any information kept outside of his head is accessible by the enemy, and he's right. Either someone hacked the network, or they used an interrupter."

"So we're looking for either a nerd, or someone with a padded wallet."

Neal shook his head. "Not necessarily. Even though the equipment you guys use cost the taxpayers thousands doesn't mean we can't come up with our own versions."

"I find it interesting you still say _we_, but continue." Peter nodded.

He plastered on a smile, "As some of you keep reminding me: once a criminal, always a criminal. Wireless jammers can be made from a few simple things. Garage door opener, an old handheld dial radio and a nine volt battery for example."

Silence, and then "What do you mean _they didn't have far to go_?"

"The entrance to the tunnel is in the parlour."

Peter squinted, trying to remember, "The fireplace?"

"Yup. So again, the question is _why _the Kandinsky?"

Silence filled the room. A moment later four voices spoke in unison: "It's personal."

Neal stood up at the head of the table, grinning, and took a bow. "Did I win anything?"

"No, we learned to stop betting against you." Jones replied.

Neal sat back down as Diana spoke up "We still don't know how they knew it would be hanging there at that moment in time."

"Or there at all." Peter frowned, thumbing through the folder. "Thatcher told us they rotate the artwork because they have so much – how did they know that piece was even in the house?"

"Details." Neal shrugged, glancing at his watch. "As much as I love hanging out with you all – it's pretty late and I've got a dinner date."

"A date?" Peter asked.

"Well, an appointment."

"Ah, Haversham?"

"And some good wine."

"Just not the Lassegue."

Neal smiled and stood up, "Night Peter. See you in the morning."

"Bright and early." Peter confirmed. "Jones – can you escort our CI out. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere near the evidence lockers."

"Again with the trust."

"If I recall correctly, a bottle went missing a couple weeks ago around the time a certain insurance agent was living in the conference room."

"Oh, now that's _my_ fault?"

"You tell me – you were the one bringing her presents and trying to get on her good side." Peter teased.

"She wanted to kill me, Peter. Now, is it really my fault if Sara has good taste and got into some stowed away wine?"

"It is when there's tape of you bringing it up to the rooftop with a couple glasses." Peter smiled.

Neal's face lost its grin and he bit his bottom lip, bowing his head slightly.

"Thought so." Peter remarked. "And don't give me that sad puppy look."

"I think it's more of a scolded child look." Jones commented.

"Have to side with Jones on that one." Diana grinned.

"I can work with that," Peter said, nodding to himself. "Neal, you're grounded. Go straight home. Don't leave. And don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That petulant look?"

"Petulant?"

"You know exactly what it means, now get lost."

"Only if you tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Why I'm grounded when I didn't do anything."

"Oh for crying out loud, just go home! You have a date, remember? And some of us have more work to do."

"Why?" It was taking Neal everything he had not to crack a smile, and he was finally rewarded.

Peter thrust his jaw forward, cheeks red, and tilted his head glaring daggers. "Because. I. Said. So." He pointed to the door.

Neal dropped his head, left through the door and took five steps before breaking in to a full grin. Sometimes he loved this job – when it didn't involve mortgage fraud or cold cases.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

"Hey Moz – save any of that for me?" Neal asked, closing the door behind him.

"I think there might be a glass left. It tasted a bit funny, though."

"Yet you still drank it." Neal pointed out, sitting opposite him at the table.

"It's a Lassegue, of course I'm going to drink it." Moz rolled his eyes at him.

"About that – make sure you get rid of the bottle when you're done with it."

"If I finish it."

"The FBI didn't poison the wine, Moz." Neal sighed, leaning back in the chair.

"Prove it."

"You're still sitting here, aren't you?"

"It could be a slow acting poison."

"Moz..Nevermind." Neal smiled at his friend, pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket.

"What's that?"

"This is a list of the false alarms at the National Arts Club."

"Is this about the Kandinsky?"

"You heard about it, then?"

"Pfft. Everyone's heard about it Neal."

"Any word on who?"

"Nope."

"Keep your ears open for anyone looking for a fence or private sale."

"Will do. So what's with the list?"

"I think the thieves broke in using the old escape tunnel."

"You know – I remember someone talking about that tunnel." Moz nodded.

Neal leaned forward, hoping for any information.

"Yeah," Moz nodded. "A younger guy. Kind of arrogant, slightly smarter than a spaniel, dark hair and annoying blue eyes-"

Neal sighed and leaned back into the chair, "We aren't talking about aspirations from years ago." He pointed out. Moz shrugged. "So, what's with the list?"

"If they _did_ use the tunnel, I'm thinking that when the alarms went off is when they were digging."

"Right. The inertia sensor."

"Yeah."

"All these are at night time."

"Exactly!" Neal grinned.

"No. Oh no. Nu uh Neal. I'm a couple glasses in and I'm comfortable. I don't want to go skulking around in alleys. Plus – the theft was last night. You're kind of a little late."

"This might be our last chance – maybe they had to come back tonight to clean up something or refill the tunnel."

"You realize the chances of that are slim. Most people aren't stupid to leave evidence lying around for long waiting to be caught. Unless you're slightly smarter than a spaniel and enjoy signing your name to crimes."

"If it's a long shot, then it shouldn't be dangerous." Neal pointed out.

"I don't not want to go because it's dangerous; I don't want to go because I'm comfortable where I am."

"Okay Moz. You stay here, but I'm going to check it out."

"Why didn't you tell the suit and go with him?"

"Because you're right – it's probably nothing. I want to be sure before I talk to Peter about anything. I don't want to disappoint him. I haven't exactly made it easy on him lately – especially with that tape."

"And by that you mean you don't want to embarrass yourself." Moz pointed out.

Neal stood up, "Any progress on the tape?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know when I know. Oh –speaking of old aspirations; Gotten into Gramercy yet?"

"No, not yet."

"If I wanted in there so badly I'd have picked it by now."

"It wouldn't be right." Neal shook his head.

Moz eyed him up, "You're an art thief and forger – you used to commit crime for a living and still walk the line for kicks – and you think it would be _wrong _to pick a lock to a park."

"I told you, Moz. It's different. The idea of Gramercy is that not everyone can have it – it's about status, placement. It has to be earned – if you steal it, it's not the same. The entire idea of the park would fail to hold the meaning it once did, which is what makes it so tempting in the first place!"

Mozzie fixed him with a look, "Neal? It's a park."

"_Sure Moz, _enjoy the wine." Neal finished, grabbing his overcoat and hat before heading downstairs.

"It's kind of late to be going out, isn't it?"

"Evening June" Neal greeted her, giving her a quick one armed hug. "How was Maine?"

June smiled up at him, "Cold, wet and too quiet."

"I missed you too." He smiled back at her. "Anyway, gotta go – The night's just beginning."

"I'll have coffee ready for six."

"That'll be great. You're amazing."

June smiled. "Is Mozzie still upstairs?"

"Yeah – he's treating himself to my wine."

"Nothing's changed then?"

"Nope. You should go join him. Try and convince him the wine hasn't been poisoned."

"I highly doubt I could convince that man of anything."

Neal pursed his lips, considering for a moment, "If it has anything to do with the government, hospitals or conspiracies probably not."

June smiled. "I think I'll go say good night to him. You be careful."

"Always am – see you in the morning." Neal flashed a smile and then escaped through the front door.

**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**

**Please R&R – it makes me write faster – seriously, it kept me up until 2:30 this morning!**

**On a side note – kinda sad about tonight. Yay finale. Boo finale. No more WC until next season – guess we'll have to live vicariously through , as always : )**


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Again, thank you to the kind reviewers out there. You make my day, so I'll try and makes yours – TWO chapters posted today, just for you guys : )

To answer a couple questions I got:

Yes, the NAC is a real place and does, in fact, have an escape tunnel! No, I've never been inside. Uma Thurman is a real actress and does, in fact, have membership at (the real) NAC and Yes, you need a key to Gramercy Park.

Hooray for believable details!

Disclaimer: Sadly don't own anything White Collar related. Please don't sue! I swear I'll give the characters back, patched up and good as new! They won't even remember it!

**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC

Neal made his way toward East 19th, passing a couple pubs en route. He was never really a pub person – more of a wine bar kind of guy. Though, he mused, there was a nice place – the Flatiron Lounge – the he hadn't been to in a while. It had been one of Kate's favourite places – she had liked the themed cocktails.

Neal smiled to himself, remembering when they had rented the basement club room to celebrate after a successful job. Kate had been exuberant that night – it was one of her first big jobs, where she hadn't sat on the sidelines. He remembered them walking down the street and Kate bouncing up to a couple sitting in Union Square to invite them.

_Kate, we don't even know those people._

_Oh shush. They don't have to know what we're celebrating. It's not exactly like we have the room filled, Neal. Plus, look at them. They're like us – happy. In love._

Neal could remember standing slightly back while the three of them talked, a small part of him yearning for the solidity of settling down, doing things right.

It had been too early, for him though. Still too much to see and do – so much to prove. Maybe if they'd settled down, Kate wouldn't be- No. No he wasn't going there. No reason to keep going there.

He was about to cross the street when he noticed a little shop still open – Sunburst Espresso Bar – and detoured in. He gave the barista a wide smile, and her tired brown eyes seemed to brighten. She stood up straighter. It was amazing what a great smile could do for someone.

"Slow night?" Neal asked.

The girl nodded, long blonde hair falling into her face. "Tuesdays usually are."

"You like working here?" Neal asked, slightly curious.

She laughed, "I _need_ to work here. I go to FIT and it's not cheap."

"Fashion, nice choice. Name's Neal, by the way." Neal nodded, smiling.

"I like the program – like your hat, too. I'm Madison."

"You know, Madison, you wouldn't believe how many people don't appreciate this thing! Crazy, right?" Neal raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"It is a classic," she nodded. "Can I get you something?"

"What do you drink?"

"I make a great Cortado." Madison smiled, tapping her finger on the glass display case.

"Sounds good. So do you model your own designs?" Neal pursed his lips.

Madison laughed, "Yeah. Right."

"What, you don't think you could? I think you could."

"I uh, I have a boyfriend."

"He's a lucky guy." Neal winked. Madison wasn't his type – right now, no one was his type – but Neal also knew what a great compliment could do for someone. He was rewarded when a blush stained her cheeks and she dropped her chin. Their conversation was interrupted by the making of the cortado, and by the time Madison turned back to the counter she seemed to have composed herself.

She handed him the drink in a paper cup with a heat sleeve, and Neal pulled out his wallet. "Don't worry about it," she grinned. "It's on me."

"You sure?"

She nodded. Neal pulled out a five, "take this for yourself then. Don't tell management." He smiled, putting it into the tip jar.

Madison laughed, "Thanks. Have a good night, Neal."

"I'm sure I will. I look forward to seeing your designs on the runway." He smiled to himself, pushing the door open and exiting into the night. He knew he'd left her smiling – his goal in the first place.

Neal arrived at the alleyway entrance to The Players Club and ducked in to it. The NAC sat right beside the Player's Club, though the latter had a rear alleyway entrance instead of one across from the park. Walking in to the empty lot behind the NAC Neal moved slowly, listening for any sounds or other disturbances. He heard nothing but the sound of his own shoes on the loose asphalt. Peering around the corner revealed nothing.

His shoulders, which he hadn't been aware were tense, relaxed. His breath came back to normal and he made his way back to the mouth of the alley on East 19th. He paused there, leaning against the large white building beside him to take a drink of his cortado. _Hot, but excellent._

He walked around the corner and took a look at the large white building. It was an old rundown six story building. It looked empty. A corner of his mouth shot up in a half smile. This was the building directly behind the Arts Club – a good place to have the tunnel entrance. He glanced around him and moved closer to the building, walking up a couple steps on to a small cement porch. The windows were covered in newspaper.

_Fresh newspaper_, he noticed. It wasn't yellowed. He stepped on something, causing him to lose his balance slightly. Reaching out to grab the railing he spilled some of his coffee.

"Shit." Neal swore quietly, staring at his shirt. His good _white_ dress shirt. Of course. Damn. Neal let go of the railing and glared down at the offending object – a small rock – and kicked it off the porch.

_Why is..._ Neal looked at the black railing he'd grabbed on to and back at his palm, now covered in black dirt.

Maybe he should have stayed home with Mozzie. It's not too late, he mused. He could just head back, there wasn't anything here anyway. No telling noises from inside, no one sneaking around. Except for him, that is.

Neal made it down the steps before it hit him. Not dirt. Soot. Like the soot from the fireplace in the parlour of the NAC. He smiled and glanced behind him. Something crunched under his foot.

Another rock. Neal crouched down_. Not a rock – cement_. The tunnel had been sealed with cement. He could feel himself grinning like an idiot. He could take this to Peter in the morning.

Neal was lost in his own ruminations, so it was a surprise when he bumped in to a wall.

A flexible wall. He looked up and found three twenty-something males looking at him.

Not looking_, glaring, _Neal noted.

"You asshole, you spilled coffee on me!"

He almost smiled in relief. It wasn't the return of the thieves to kill the nosy intruder!

That thought came two seconds before one of them grabbed him from behind, knocking his hat off. He took a deep breath, purposely relaxing his shoulders. "Hey, guys. It was an accident. I can pay for dry cleaning –"

"Does it look like I normally dry clean my clothes?" Jean Paul – as Neal appropriately named him after his baggy sweatshirt – demanded.

Neal wasn't sure how to answer. He was guessing either was wrong at this point. "I can pay you; I have some cash in my wallet. Take it." Neal figured there was about fifty bucks in there, but he wasn't a fighter. Or anything remotely resembling one, really.

Jean-Paul smiled widely. It gave Neal the creeps. And then Neal did something stupid to make it worse.

His cortado found its way to the face of the guy behind him – Neal named him Bear, since he seemed incredibly large. As Bear screamed and let go, Neal ducked to the side and started running down East 19th the way he'd come.

Though Neal knew he wasn't exactly an athlete, he wasn't sedentary either. Running was kind of a recommended skill if you were any type of criminal – even white collar. Sometimes, for no particular reason, things went south and you had to do what any purse snatcher in New York did.

Run for your life.

He made it a block and a half. Someone tackled him from behind. Literally tackled. Neal flew forward in to the pavement and pain screamed through his left wrist as he tried to slow his fall. The weight on his back pushed his forehead in to the pavement, making him see stars for a moment.

Before he'd completely recovered the weight released from his back. _Did they – Nope. Hadn't left._ Neal was rolled over on to his back, four people staring down at him.

"Guys – come on. Misunderstanding. Really. It was a reflex-"

"Shut up" Jean Paul interrupted, punctuating his demand with a kick to Neal's side.

Neal felt himself roll on to his side and flex inwards. His hands clutched his side.

"Get his wallet." Jean ordered. Neal felt hands check his jacket pockets. _Wrong,_ he thought. Coming up empty they moved to his pants, recovering his wallet from the front pocket. As a former – and still occasional – pick pocket he knew this was the hardest place to lift from.

The wallet was thrown back at his head. After, Neal assumed, they had emptied it.

"Now what?" Bear asked.

"You could let me go." Neal suggested in a whisper. Pain lanced through his chest.

Jean snorted. "Grab him and bring him here."

That didn't sound like letting go.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit._

Hands clamped his arms and lifted him from the pavement. He was roughly shoved backwards against a wall. There was a two second pause before something hard – probably a fist but for all he knew it could have been a rock – his him in the cheekbone.

His head snapped back, hitting against the wall behind him. Again he saw stars. His eyes focused just as the blond one succeeded in pulling a loose piece of wood from an abandoned delivery pallet.

_How convenient for them._

Neal closed his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to watch the approach and impending pain. He didn't wait long, as something was slammed against his chest. Neal almost fell forward, but hands held him up. It was followed with another punch – this time to the jaw.

One more attack to the ribs. This one was blinding. No stars. No blinking it away. Literally nothing but white, hot pain spreading through his chest. He gasped and coughed, amplifying the pain. The hands holding him to the wall let him go. Neal dropped like a rock on to his knees and forward. Pain shot through his wrist once more as it tried to bear weight, and he fell on to his side. He moved his right arm over his ribs, trying to brace them.

He didn't even open his eyes as a shoe – a very hard shoe – nailed his head like a soccer ball.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

He came back slowly, the sounds of New York slowly filling his ears. Cars, trucks, sirens. Somewhere nearby was a bar. He could hear glasses clinking. Could smell…_Ugh. I think that's old urine. _ Obviously someone had been using this place as a toilet.

The pain came back quicker. First in his chest, with each breath. A throbbing in his temple made its presence known next. Lastly, the pain arcing through his wrist.

Neal steeled himself with each shallow breath. Clenched his jaw and eyes shut, trying to push the pain away.

_Focus. Breathe. Focus, breathe._

With his eyes closed Neal noticed the pain seemed to flare with each heartbeat, in rhythm. He felt like he'd just jumped off the outdoor observation desk of 30 Rock.

And landed on knives.

_Not knives, swords. Lots of them._

Finally, he opened his eyes, staring up at the sky. Clouds hanging over the city reflected the lights back down. It always seemed brighter at night when there were clouds or fog. It wasn't just a lively city then – it was a living city pulsing with an ethereal glow.

_I have to get up. Or do I?_

Neal let go of his ribs, reaching in to his jacket pocket with his right hand.

_Cell phone is gone._

So yes, he had to move.

_On three. _One. Two. _Oh dear god no. _Neal stopped counting before he even tried. Though anticipation was usually the worst part, he was having doubts it would be that way in this scenario.

Bracing his ribs again, he took a deep breath. _Three._ Before he could hesitate further Neal used the wall to get to his feet and leaned against it coughing. He could already tell his left eye was swollen. It felt tight, and a small mound seemed to interfere with the bottom part of his vision.

_No phone. _He checked the ground. _No wallet. Wait. That had been taken in the street._ Cleanching his teeth together, Neal carefully plodded his way from the alley, still using the wall for balance. Five feet away from the alley entrance was his leather wallet. He stared down at it.

_This sucks. What did I do to deserve this?_ Neal pulled the wallet closer with his foot and went to bend his knees to grab it. The pain stopped him, and he straightened. _Okay. Now what genius._ Neal bent at the waist and reached. His head swam, but he retrieved it.

He eyed the signs on the corner. He was still several blocks away from June's. Without a phone, and without money.

If Peter ever mocked him for his low pain tolerance again – _name one person who didn't complain about a paper cut_ – he'd be sure to bring this up. In detail. Gory detail.

Just before Neal stumbled around the corner he saw a glowing shop across the street. Glowing meant lights. Lights meant open. He made his way towards it. Finding that taking a step, recovering and then continuing was taking too long, he soon found himself taking several steps quickly until he was nearly overwhelmed. Then recovered. Partly. Then started again. He pulled the glass door open and stumbled inside. Squinting against the light. Eyes adjusting.

"Neal? Ohmygod, what the hell happened?"

"Maddy," Neal smiled. Winced.

"Holy shit. Oh crap. Crap. Neal, sit down. Here. There's a chair right here. Jesus – what the hell happened?"

"Cortada." He muttered.

"You want another coffee?" Maddy asked, confused.

"No. Spilled it. Then fight." He whispered, wetting his lips.

"You need a doctor. You need an ambulance. Let me call someone. I'll be right – "

"No!"

"No?"

"No ambulance. Just...Phone."

"Okay. Okay. I have the phone. Who do you want to call?"

Neal thought about it. _Peter. His first thought was Peter. The though pulled at his gut. Peter could come get him. No. no, Peter couldn't come get him. Peter would be pissed. Mozzie. Moz could borrow June's car. Maybe._

"What time is it?" he asked, still squinting but meeting Madison's brown eyes with his own blue ones.

"It's almost eleven."

"Oh. When…Was I here?"

"I think around nine…or nine thirty. I can't remember."

"Oh."

"Do you want me to call someone? Are you sure you don't' need an ambulance? You look like crap." Madison finished quickly.

"Thanks." Neal held his hand out for the phone. Moz would kill him if he gave anyone else his number, even if it was a burner.

Madison pressed the cordless in to his right hand. Neal handed it back after thirty seconds of trying to focus on the numbers. Screw Mozzie. He'd buy him a new phone. Neal gave Maddy the number to dial. She held it up to his ear.

It rang. _Please pick up Moz. Please pick up._

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Mozzie took a sip of wine, humming along to Chopin on his headphones. He didn't want to bother June, who was downstairs. He paused.

_What the…_He took off the headphones and heard his phone ringing. He grabbed it. "Yeah?"

"Moz?"

"Neal? Why are you – is everything okay?"

He could hear Neal sigh on the other end. "No. Come pick me up. Please. June's car. Bring a blanket."

A stream of nervous energy buzzed through his gut. Neal wasn't okay. "Neal, where are you? Neal?"

A new voice. Female. "Uh. Hello?"

"Who's this? What'd you do to Neal?" Moz demanded, standing up and grabbing a blanket.

"I didn't do anything. He came in like this. We're at the Sunburst Espresso bar on 18th by 3rd."

"Go figure." Moz said, hanging up.

Leave it to Neal to collapse where coffee was at hand.

**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC

Hope you're enjoying the whumpage – please Read & Review!


	5. Chapter 5

****big smile** apparently I'm a drug! a drug with a parasite...but still a drug! Woot!**

**A/N: Thanks muchly to my faithful reviewers - you guys rock. Seriously, wish I could mail you all plastic sheriff badges : )**

**On a side note: I REFUSE to accept the last...oh, three minutes or so of the White Collar finale as 'truth', so to speak. Please keep me blissfully ignorant, or as our short friend might say, "There are many things of which a wise man might wise to remain ignorant"...or is that Emerson? I always get confused between the two...Moving on...**

**Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue...If you would like to gift me with a small portion of a certain blue eyed stud for my ingenuity, wit and charm I wouldn't say no...Didn't think so. sigh.**

**WCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Can I get you something?" Madison asked, crouching down in front of him.

"Nope. I'm good." Neal offered a wavering smile.

"Yeah. You look it." Maddy replied dryly. She disappeared from his field of view and Neal closed his eyes. He heard a heavy lock slide in to place. She was closing the store.

_Probably for the best. Don't need someone walking in on this. Cops would be here in two minutes flat and Peter would probably be two minutes behind them._

_Peter. God, what the hell was he going to tell Peter?_

"Here. For your cheek. You're gonna have on helluva black eye." Pause. "Don't look so sad, a lot of chicks dig scars – and guys they can nurse back to health. No matter what people say, it's in our nature."

The corner of Neal's mouth raised and he took the ice from her, holding the tea towel against his face with his right hand, ribs braced with the left. "That what you're doing?"

Madison laughed. A nervous laugh, just slightly forced, to lighten the situation. "Me? Nurture? I guess if I'm not the one hitting you over the head with a bat."

"He raised an eyebrow, "but you're a-"

"Girl?"

"Fashion designer." Neal finished, pulling the ice away from his cheek.

She shrugged, "So I can wield a bat and scissors. I'm talented. Put that ice back on or you won't be able to see out of that eye in a few hours."

"Experience?"

"Boyfriend." She sighed.

Neal nodded, putting the ice back on his eye. He refocused on his breathing. Still painful, but shallow breaths made it a bit more manageable.

"Do you think they're broken?"

Neal cracked an eye open.

"Your ribs, do you think they're broken?"

"Not a doctor." He smiled whimsically, thinking of his forged doctorates.

"Can I see?"

Neal raised another brow.

"Never mind." She blushed. A pause. "I didn't mean it like that – it's just that I have a brother. He's an EMT so, you know," she shrugged. "You pick some stuff up."

"Pretty sure I can't get my shirt off."

Madison rolled her eyes, "Enticing as that might be if I didn't have an awesome guy already, you're wearing a dress shirt. It has buttons, genius."

Neal snorted in laughter, immediately regretting it. Still, a small grin found its way back on to his face.

A loud thumping on the door caused them both to jump. Neal turned, half expecting crazed kids awaiting his exit. "Moz." He sighed in relief.

"Your friend?" Maddy asked, waiting for confirmation before opening it.

"I have to say, you almost look as bad as that one time in Greece when –"

"Yeah. Thanks Moz." Neal replied, glancing at Madison.

"Right. Uh. So." Moz shifted from foot to foot.

"Moz, this is Madison. She makes a great cortada."

"Good to know," Moz frowned. "Feeling okay there?"

"Never better. Can we go? I'd like to die in my own bed."

"Uh huh. I can see you're feeling perfectly okay. Was this related to the case you were-"

"Moz. Really not the time."

"I'll take that as a yes. See what happens when you join the other team?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "Unrelated."

"Yeah. Right. Just like Woodstock and the alleged moon landing."

Neal glanced at Madison, who was eyeing Mozzie while biting her lip. "They were unrelated." She spoke up.

Mozzie looked at her, "That's what they want you to think."

Madison's forehead creased in confusion. "Just ignore him," Neal told her. "Moz, can we-"

"Right. Yeah. Oh, blanket. Right here…What's the blanket for?"

"Don't want to mess June's leather upholstery."

"Always the hero. Disgusting." Moz shook his head. "You need help, Robin Hood?"

"No." Neal put down the ice, steeled himself and rose to a standing position. His pants, which had been stuck to his knees, pulled away causing them to sting. He glanced down. _Great. There goes these pants._

"You can get another pair," Moz read his mind.

"Thanks, for.." Neal turned to Madison.

"No problem," she smiled. "Stop in when you look a little less like road kill."

He nodded, softly, but dots still danced in front of his eyes.

"And keep the ice…and the towel."

"No, it's-"

"You bled on it. Keep it. Really."

"Oh." Neal picked up the towel-wrapped ice and gave her a small smile before – slowly – leaving the café.

0o0o0o0o0o

"You going to call Peter?" Moz asked as he sat himself slowly on his bed. The stairs had nearly killed him; they had taken forever to climb.

"No."

"Why not? He's going to find out sooner or later."

_Later. Please later. Much, much later. After bruises had faded._ "When did you start calling him Peter?"

"Around the time we mutually agreed to keep your ass out of trouble. Obviously I failed."

"You met with Peter?" Neal asked, confused. He pushed his right shoe off with his left foot.

Moz made a noise. _Pfft._ "Like I'd meet up with a suit in the middle of a park."

Neal stared at him plaintively.

"Maybe once." Moz shrugged.

Neal closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. He was exhausted. "Moz. You've got to find me some pain killers."

"Neal, if you of all people are asking for drugs I think we should find you a hospital. Or at least a doctor."

"The FBI doesn't offer their CI's health insurance."

"Well how about Chris?"

"Whatever." He sighed. He was too tired to try and concentrate on a conversation any more. He hissed as pain lanced through his chest as he slowly laid on to his right side – his good side. Moz handed him a pillow which he braced against his chest, holding it there with his arm.

He was unconscious before Moz could even pick up the phone.

0o0o0o0o0o

_Neal woke up with an angry Peter standing over him. He was shaking his head. Neal knew he was really upset because his nostrils would occasionally flare. He was saying something, but Neal couldn't quite understand it. He listened carefully._

_You always do this. You always run off and do things on your own You should have trusted me, Jimmy. Should have asked for my help. Now it's too late._

_Jimmy? Neal wondered. He tried to tell Peter his name wasn't Jimmy, but he couldn't seem to open his mouth._

_You did this to yourself, you know. Peter is the best thing that ever happened to you, and you're smart enough to know that, Neal Elizabeth's voice came next. Neal blinked and found himself sitting in a prison cell._

_No, not any prison cell. His old cell. The days still marked on the wall and scribbled over. The light bulb still hanging there, broken. A shadow fell across the doorway and he looked up._

_Jean Paul, Bear and the third wheel stood there, smiling down at him._

_Sneaking around like you do, Neal, you're the same as them. No different. All criminals. You lied to me, Peter appeared behind the three boys._

_No, Neal tried to say. I didn't lie to you Peter – I never lied to you. I didn't disappoint you – I wouldn't._

Neal woke up, gasping for a breath and covered in sweat. A red haired male stood over him. Neal took in a measured breath. "Chris?"

"Hey. You're awake."

Neal groaned as the pain took over his body once more.

"Sorry buddy. I know it hurts, but I want you to go a bit longer without any pain killers. You've got a nasty head wound that –"

Neal closed his eyes as Chris' voice faded in to the back ground and a roaring silence filled his ears.

The next time he woke the room was brighter, everything a bit softer. Neal heard Moz speaking from the corner.

"He's alive."

Neal felt…fuzzy. Tingly. His tongue felt slightly too big. He squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them. Still distorted.

He was high.

Crap. And yet, he wasn't that upset. He smiled. Definitely high.

"How ya feelin' buddy?" A head of red hair popped into his field of view.

Neal felt his grin widen.

"How much did you give him?" Moz asked, joining Chris bedside.

"Enough. He hit his heard pretty good so that probably isn't helping."

"Or is helping," Moz pointed out.

"You two…are like a married couple. Bicker, bicker, bicker…Snicker." Neal chuckled.

"I don't think I've ever seen Neal high. This could be fun."

"He is usually a bit more composed." Mozzie shrugged.

Neal lifted his left hand to brush his face and found his wrist wrapped in a tensor. "Huh." He shrugged, dropping his arm and rubbing his face into the pillow instead.

"How's your chest, Neal?"

Neal paused and took a breath. "It hurts."

"Are you _pouting_?" Chris asked, laughing.

"No."

Chris just smiled back at him, head shaking back and forth.

Neal closed his eyes and tried grasping on to that moment. A sliver of fear entered his gut as he realized that he wasn't _completely_ in control of himself. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself, pain jagging through his ribs. It cleared his mind. Focused him.

"What time is it?" he asked, enunciating and trying not to slur.

"Almost six." Moz replied.

"Is June..?"

"She woke up about half hour ago. We heard her down in the kitchen."

"Coffee."

"You want coffee?"

"She's making coffee." Neal clarified. "She said for six."

"That could be a problem." Chris spoke up.

Neal chewed his lip, pushing his head back in to the soft pillow. "No. S'okay. June's good. Peter, though."

"When's the suit supposed to show up?"

"Oh. He's the suit again?"

"When's Peter supposed to pick you up?"

"Seven. Ish." Neal sighed.

What are we going to tell him?" Moz asked, dragging a chair over to the bed and making himself comfortable.

"Nothing. I'm sick. Too sick to come in. You can tell him."

"He's going to want to see you, Neal. Peter's not an idiot."

"Can hide in the bathroom."

"He'll wait for you."

Neal paused. "He'll have to get to work some time."

"I know I haven't always been the biggest supporter of your relationship with the feds, Neal, but he's going to find out sooner or later. If he finds out later, it's not going to look good on you."

A gentle knock on the door interrupted any further discussion. "Neal? Are you awake?" June's voice came through the door.

Neal gave Mozzie a pointed look and he got up to answer the door. "Hi June! Nice morning, isn't it?"

"Beautiful. I thought I might take in coffee with Neal up here on the terrace. I wasn't expecting you here this early."

Moz laughed nervously, "Yeah. Well. You know me – always surprising people. In fact, I have a really good story about that, I should tell you-"

"Moz. Where is Neal?" June interrupted.

"He's…here."

"Is he okay?"

"He's…breathing."

Neal rolled his eyes. Probably not the response you should give someone if not intending to incite panic.

"Let me in the room, Mozzie."

"Yes ma'am." Mozzie opened the door wider, stepping aside.

June entered, graceful and composed as ever, carrying a silver tray with a pot of coffee, cups and saucers.

"Morning June." Neal smiled. June paused, staring.

His smile wavered.

June shook her head, gathering her composure. "Young men, all the same. What happened, Neal?"

Neal smiled again, head falling back in to the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling.

"We're all waiting for an answer, Neal." Moz added.

"I spilled coffee on someone." Neal snickered. Couldn't help it. All this for coffee. "Not coffee. Cortada." Neal corrected further, smiling wider. "Cortada…Cortada. Funny word, isn't it?"

Everyone was silent for a moment, and Neal closed his eyes.

"I uh, I gave him something for the pain." Chris offered in explanation.

"Apparently something very nice." June smiled. "Who'd like some coffee? It's a fine Italian Roast."

"I'll have some!" Mozzie replied immediately. He turned to Chris, "I love her coffee."

"Not as much as you like my wine." Neal commented from the bed.

"Mozzie, be a dear and take this out to the terrace. You and Chris pour yourselves a cup while I speak with Neal for a moment."

"Yes ma'am." Mozzie shot Neal a look. _Good luck._

June approached the bed and sat down in the chair Moz had moved closer. "Are you really okay, Neal?"

Neal turned his head to face her, warmth flooding him when he saw the gentle, caring smile on her face. Waiting for an earnest answer. Shifting he felt a stabbing pain, using it to bring him out of the haze. "I will be. Just sore. Nothing that won't heal." He smiled.

"Don't you try and smile your way out of this one, young man. I've heard you complain more about a shaving nick. Now, is that man out there a doctor?"

Neal felt chided, "Yes, he is. He has his own practise and…caters to some clients off the books for…certain reasons, sometimes."

June nodded in understanding. "Have you told Peter yet?"

"No."

"May I ask why not?"

He drew in a breath and peeled his eyes away from her, staring at the white ceiling and wooden beams criss-crossing it. He remembered his dream and shrugged.

"I think you'll find he'll be a bit more understanding than you're expecting." June said quietly.

"Why's that?" Neal asked, unable to help himself. Desperate for any glimmer of respite to cling to.

June stood up, straightening her dress and met his eyes. She smiled gently, "because you look like shit." A pause, "and he respects you. You're his friend."

_Let's hope_. Neal paused and furrowed his brow, "June, did you just curse?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWC**

**So what'd ya think? I know, I'm holding back Peter's reaction until the next chapter, I'm so cruel. Honestly, not too sure how to write it just yet. I'll try and plug away at it later tonight for all you rabid fans...scary rabid fans...good rabid fans...sit...stay...review... ; )**


	6. Chapter 6

****slowly approaches rabid fans with completed chapter, chuckling nervously****

"**See now, no need to get violent…No need for rabies."**

****tosses pages into crowd of people and runs****

**Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue :)**

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Suit's here" Moz said, looking up from the monitor at Neal.

"I'll go let him in." June offered an encouraging smile before she closed the door behind her.

Neal nodded. "Can you help me out?"

"I still think this is stupid. He's not going to leave without seeing you." Moz said, standing beside his friend.

"I just need a minute to compose myself. Figure out what to tell him."

"How about, 'Hi Peter. Got beat up. Now I'm a gimp.' Chris grinned.

"Funny." Neal replied dryly, taking a few steps toward the washroom.

Peter's voice drifted up from the foyer, "Mornign June. Neal upstairs?"

Neal couldn't hear a reply, but he could hear Peter start up the stairs.

_That man walks like a horse._

As Peter opened the door to his loft, it felt like the air went rushing out. Neal didn't turn to look at him, though he felt Mozzie shift beside him.

"Morning, suit. Neal wasn't trying to hide."

_Thanks Moz._

After nearly thirty seconds Peter spoke up. "Turn around."

Neal eyed the floor between himself and the washroom. Letting out a breath he finally shuffled around to face Peter, though didn't actually _look_ at him.

More silence, then "What the _hell_ happened to you, Neal?"

Neal could probably count the number of times he hadn't had a response readily available on one hand. No matter the situation there was usually something to offer – at his best a redirect or witty remark, at his worst just a sound. Nothing came this time. He didn't even take a breath.

"Neal." Peter warned.

He swallowed. "I was down in Gramercy –"

"I can't believe you." Peter interrupted, rubbing a hand over his face, looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head. "I just can't…You're smarter than that."

"I was just looking around –"

"Uh huh. Looking around for what, exactly? A tunnel, perhaps?"

Neal licked his lips, finally looking up at Peter's stony face. _Well, June was most definitely wrong about the reprieve._ "I found-"

"I don't care what you found. You shouldn't have been there and you know it. This isn't a gray area, Neal." He shook his head. "So what, you find the entrance and happen to run in to the crew that broke in to the NAC. Foreseeably they get pissed off and try and kill you?"

He didn't wait for Neal to respond. "Now they know we're on to them, and they're going to be five times as thorough on their clean up. They and the Kandinsky are now in the wind."

"It wasn't –"

"Don't you ever just _stop and think_? What if you'd been caught sneaking around by the cops? What if they'd -"

"Could you let me finish?" Neal finally snapped, breathing hard. Adrenalin pumped through his veins, joining the pain killers Chris had given him.

Peter stopped, the wind taken out of him.

Neal felt heat rush into his cheeks and stole the opportunity. "I wasn't attacked by the thieves. Just…Stupid kids. I spilled coffee on them and they got pretty upset-"

"What'd you say to them?"

"What?"

"What'd you say? To them, I mean. I'm not stupid, Neal. I know it takes a little more than spilled coffee to encourage a beating within an inch of your life."

"Why are you trying so hard to blame him?" Chris defended from the corner.

Neal's eyes flickered to his red haired acquaintance, who had squared himself off with Peter.

"Who the hell are you?"

"He's the one who treated me. He's an old friend."

"An old friend, huh? A criminal?" Peter asked, head turning from Chris, to Neal and back again.

Neal ground his teeth but said nothing. Mozzie brought over a kitchen chair and gestured for Neal to sit.

"You and your friends. Old habits, Neal." Peter shook his head. "I will put you back in if you screw this up Neal, so help me."

"Yeah. You seem happy to remind me of that at every turn. Frankly, it's getting a little old." Neal clenched his jaw. Peter looked as though he'd been slapped, and a small seed of remorse blossomed in Neal's stomach. He redirected, "Chris was good enough to come. He checked me over, wrapped up my wrist and gave me something for the pain. He didn't do anything wrong."

"So you go and call, what, a guy who happens to have taken a first aid course with access to pain killers?" Peter demanded, angrily gesturing at Chris.

"Actually, I'm a doctor."

Peter turned back to Chris and, though Neal couldn't fully see the glare, he was incredibly glad he was _not _on the receiving end of it. "Did I ask you? No, I did not. You be quiet."

Neal felt his stomach clench as Peter turned back to him. "Peter, he is a-"

"That isn't even the point Neal!"

"Could you tell me what is, then?" Neal asked, starting to get frustrated. Pain shot up his left arm as he subconsciously clenched his fist.

"The point is –"Peter paused, taking a deep breath to calm himself, "The point, Neal, is that you could have _died_ last night and you didn't even call me. You lie to me and go sneaking around a place you know could be dangerous. How am I ever supposed to trust you? And then – if that isn't bad enough – you don't even call me after the fact. You just sit around with your buds pretending everything is just fine and try and hide in a bathroom when I get here. I thought we were making progress. I guess I was wrong."

Neal finally sat down in the chair. Whatever he'd been about to say – and he wasn't even sure what it had been – was taken out of him. His chest hurt, but for once it wasn't his ribs. His stomach wound itself tighter than it had been, so much so that he felt nauseous.

_Peter doesn't believe in me_. He tore his eyes away from Peter, who stood in front of him legs slightly apart, face red and nostrils flaring. He looked at the wooden floor and felt shaky.

Why couldn't he breathe? _Stupid ribs. Cocky bastards that had done this._

"Neal?"

Neal could hear Mozzie's concern, but didn't want to look up. He was going to be sick.

_Breathe. Breathe. _

_It wasn't enough._

"Neal?" Chris's head of red curly hair entered his vision. "Neal, you have to breathe. I know it hurts, but you've got to breathe."

_I am breathing, _he wanted to say. I am. Of course he was. It just seemed to be getting stuck in his throat. A tight little ball of air just sitting there. _Why are my fingers tingling?_ It felt like that time he'd accidently touched the live wire in an outlet while trying to hide a key.

He barely registered as Chris reached towards him. Until such pain shot through his ribs. He gasped in a breath, recoiling.

"There you go. Breathe like that Neal. Deep breaths."

Neal wrapped his arms around his chest, the pain starting to face a bit. The sound of a siren carried through the open door. The smell of coffee filled his nose again. Chris reached towards him and Neal flinched, wrapping his arms tighter, but Chris put two hands on his shoulders instead. "Welcome back, buddy."

_Welcome back?_ "I was here all along." He gasped, but even as it was leaving his lips he knew that wasn't quite true. He had been, but not.

"Now what the _hell _do you call that, huh? Do you always assault your patients?" Peter's demanded.

Chris stood up. Neal's eyes followed him. "With all due respect, _sir,_ it happened to be the right thing to do at the time."

"Oh, so now you find alternative ways to shooting drugs in to someone?"

"I have analgesics on hand, not relaxants."

"Uh huh. For the record – you'll be lucky if you still have your license after this."

Chris glanced back at Neal. "I'm going to go back outside, but I want to check on you again before I leave."

Again silence filled the room. "I think I'll go join him." Moz added, nearly lunging for the door.

Neal refused to look up at Peter. He didn't want to see whatever look was there. _He's always riding me. Never gives me a break._ Neal felt his cheeks warming with anger once more.

_But maybe this is my fault. A little. I did go out last night. I didn't tell him. Maybe I should have. Probably should have. But really, does he need to be so angry? I'm sitting here feeling – and probably looking – like death warmed over. Would it kill him to have a little compassion? I give him everything, and he doesn't even appreciate it._

_He refuses to give me anything in return. Doesn't trust me, never has. That's all he wanted. Always pulling up his stupid tracking information. He doesn't believe I can do this. I can do this. I can be a contributing citizen._

Neal looked up, just in time to see Peter raising his head, dropping his fingers from the bridge of his nose.

"When are you going to trust me?" Neal asked. Wait. Peter's voice too. "What?" Neal asked.

"I asked when you were going to trust me."

_I do trust you. _"When are you going to trust me?"

Peter sighed and sat himself down at the table, running his hands over his face and in to his hair. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because there are a lot of things to consider."

"Like my tracking information?"

"Sometimes."

"All this time, and you still believe I'm out to screw you."

Peter shook his head, "No. Not screw me. Not on purpose."

"Then what?"

"It's complicated, Neal."

"You keep saying that, but it really isn't. Even El trusts me more than you do. She believes in me, I can see it in her eyes."

"Well it's not exactly as though you trust me."

"Yes I do!" Neal slipped before he could censor himself. Peter looked at him. Neal took a breath. "I do. I do trust you, Peter, and I told you that before. At the clinic. But no matter what I do, you never seem to trust me in return. I do everything for you – all these cases and sharing information on Kate and-"

"The cases are for the bureau." Peter corrected.

"No – they aren't. You really think I _care_ about pleasing the FBI? I don't care about them any further than requires my release from prison. I'm not working with _them_, Peter. I'm working for _you."_

Peter leaned back in the chair, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Neal, I –"he paused, took a breath and looked directly at Neal. "You're wrong."

Neal felt his blood pressure surge. _Even after that he can't-_

"Neal. I _do_ believe in you. I've believed in you all along, and you're blind if you don't see that. That's the _only_ reason I approached Hughes with your idea. You don't even know how many nights I couldn't sleep thinking of you in that stupid orange jumpsuit after I left. Reviewing your case file and going over and over everything in my head. I just- Neal, sometimes you screw up. Sometimes worse than others. I can't overlook that. It's my job _not to_. As much as I'd love to just ignore them, your side projects – your secrets – can't be. I'm not talking about sharing a bottle of wine from evidence on the rooftop - I'm talking about the _really_ stupid things. The times, when despite how smart you are, you just can't think straight. I have to be...Prepared...for that. I have to think about what's going to happen when-"

Peter met his eyes, "I have to think about what's going to happen when we find whoever killed Kate. You don't think straight when she's involved, Neal, and I can see you throwing everything we've – you've – worked hard for away on a stupid whim. _That_ is what bothers me. _That_ is what I don't trust you about and _that_ is why I ride you so hard."

Neal felt his face burning, though not from anger this time. From embarrassment. He looked back down at the floor, not wanting to look up. Unsure of how to proceed.

It was an awkward silence, and it lasted for what felt like an hour. Neal shifted in his chair, still not looking up. He heard Peter shifting, and then a sigh. Barely audible.

"Is that the Lessague?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

**Okay, so HOLY CRAP. That was the hardest chapter to write yet. It kind of came to me in bits and pieces. I hope I patched it together well enough so that I don't die of rabies, but I'm incredibly unsure about how this all came out and ended. GAH. Anyway, hope it's not too out of character.**

**As always PLEASE Read & Review.**

**Grazie!**


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Yes – an update finally! I figured I should probably get some of my school work done if I intend to pass. Plus my muse was…un-muse-ish. This chapters may seem a tad jumbled. Listening to Burn Notice Episodes while doing homework didn't exactly help get me "in to character."

**Thanks to my faithful reviewers – you guys rock. To Steph, Maurader, ghostdolly and Nayah – thanks for your words, they make me blush.**

Disclaimer: I don't own, don't sue!

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"You sure you can make it in?" Peter asked hesitantly.

Neal rolled his eyes upwards, felt Peters gaze lingering on his swollen purple cheek. "Yes _dad_, I'm sure."

"I could talk to Hughes, get you another day. I mean it's only been a day-"

"Peter." Neal interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not broken."

Peter offered a disbelieving stare.

Neal ground his teeth, "I can make it. Plus, I'd feel bad if I stayed."

His partner's face scrunched up in thought, "Neal Caffrey, feel _bad? _What could possibly do that?"

"June's been waiting on me hand and foot since yesterday. She had to go out for an hour and she assigned the housekeeper to me."

"Sounds like everything you've ever wanted." Peter grinned.

"Maybe, if it weren't out of pity." Neal grabbed a blue prescription bottle from the table.

"So you're willing to charm someone in to giving you a place to live, but have a problem when they bring you breakfast in bed? Just when I thought I had you figured out."

"I'm a complicated guy." Neal told him, washing down a pain killer.

"Those are-"

"Prescribed?" Neal finished. "Yes, Peter." He held up the bottle "A label with my name and everything." Neal paused a moment, "Speaking of which. I talked to Chris last night. He's doing well."

"That's great." Peter faked a smile.

"He couldn't help but notice no one stopped by to revoke his medical license."

"I may have…Over reacted. A little."

"Yeah. Noticed. So did he…" Neal trailed off, raising his eyebrows at Peter, who frowned.

"I might owe him an apology."

"Good boy!"

Peter glared, "Clothes. Now."

"Yes _dad_." Neal replied, putting down the bottle and walking away.

Peter grinned, "I'll be in the car. You're old enough to be out of the booster seat now, right?"

Neal didn't answer, but his bedroom door promptly closed harder than necessary.

0o0o0o

Neal climbed slowly in to the car. Getting comfortable with fractured ribs, he had noticed, was next to impossible.

"What's with the scowl?" Peter asked.

"They stole my hat. Or knocked it off. Or something."

"Who?"

"Who _else_, Peter?" Neal cringed. It was probably still in the middle of the street. It'd probably been run over. Covered with dirt and..oil.

"Ah. At least it's just your hat and not your head."

"It's not _just_ a hat, Peter!"

"We'll get you a new one."

"You will?"

"Me?"

"You offered. You said _We'll get you a new one_. Now, I know you didn't mean you and I, Peter, because – let's face it – it's not like I'm getting paid a whole lot here. So I figured what you _really_ meant was you would get me a new one."

"Nice try." Peter said, glancing at him.

"So that's a _no_ then? You lied?"

"I did no such thing! You misconstrued what I said."

"So what _did_ you mean, then?"

"I meant we could go by a shop and pick out a stupid hat."

"That I could steal?"

"No." Peter glared.

"So if I can't buy it, and I can't steal it, how am I supposed to get a new hat?"

Peter groaned, and Neal had to turn away to hide his smile. "_Fine_. I'll buy you a stupid hat. Just please shut up and stop pouting."

"Shutting up."

"Seat belt." Peter noted.

"You're joking, right?"

"It is the law and – contrary to your avid belief – you are not above it."

"Couldn't that classify as cruel and unusual punishment? I think my eighth amendment rights are being violated."

"By a _seat belt_?" Peter asked incredulously, turning to him.

"Broken ribs." Neal countered, forcing a light hearted smile to replace a grimace. Peter's confidence faltered and Neal smiled. He knew he'd won.

"Should've put you back in prison the second you showed up on my couch." Peter mumbled.

"Touche.. So you haven't told me; What did Stevens say when you showed up yesterday."

Peter sighed, pulling out in to traffic. "Not much. He answered all out questions, didn't seem too nervous. Honestly, I'm not sure he could have pulled it off."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

A corner of Peter's mouth twitched upwards, "He was kind of an idiot."

"So he can at least be ruled out as the mastermind." Neal mused. "Any other leads?"

"We checked out the building behind the NAC. It used to be a wine bar with some apartments up top."

"Too bad."

"Yeah. Like this city needs another wine bar." Peter commented.

"How did you know I wasn't talking about the units up top."

"Neal. I'm not an idiot."

"Fair enough. So anything there?"

"You were right. Soot on the railing, cement chips outside the building. Inside was clean."

"Clean?"

"Yep. No pieces of cement, no soot and no secret tunnels into the NAC."

"So they cleaned it out? That seems pretty…"

"Time consuming."

"If they'd already finished the job and gotten away with the painting." Neal thought aloud. He shook his head, "Why clean _everything_ out? Why not just ensure there's nothing left to indict and run for it?"

"Is that what you'd do?"

"Peter-"

"Hypothetically, Neal. Why would you go through all that trouble?"

"Hypothetically?" he mused. "I'd do it if I didn't want anyone to even know I'd been there. Leave no trace, right? Maybe to try and disguise the entrance to the tunnel?"

"To ensure you could use it at a later date and time?" Peter considered.

"You think they'll try and hit the NAC again?"

"Not anytime soon, no. They'll let this blow over first. It wouldn't be worth the risk. They have to know there's an investigation now and law enforcement in the area."

"Damn it!" Neal gasped, grabbing his ribs as Peter hit a pot hole.

"Sorry."

Neal groaned in response.

"I thought you were taking pain killers."

"I am, but they aren't exactly a _cure."_

"Hmph. Maybe your doctor friend should have given you more."

"His name is Chris, and he gave me plenty."

"So that's why you were making faces, even before we hit the pot hole?"

"Blame your driving."

"We were parked."

"Yeah well, there's a cost for being able to develop rational thought."

"That's what I thought. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to take prescriptions _as prescribed_, Neal."

"And I'm pretty sure you just want me to tell you what else I may or may not have signed."

"That might be nice."

"Or maybe you want me to sing."

"That wouldn't be so nice."

Neal heard him, but continued staring out the window. This street looked a lot different in the daylight. Less..Menacing. They pulled up in front of the white building and parked. Neal took a breath, supporting himself with the door, and slowly stood up. He couldn't help but examine the area for his hat. _Nothing,_ he thought, disappointed. Not even a squished covered-in-road-dirt version. As he glanced around he noticed a sign and smiled.

"You're parking illegally, Peter."

"I'm a federal agent."

"Oh, so now _you're_ above the law?"

"What? You want me to move the car and have you walk further?"

Neal blew air into his cheeks. "Yeah. No."

"Then stop arguing."

They both moved towards the entrance, where there was a police officer waiting. Peter flashed his badge, Neal flashed him a big smile. They both moved inside without a word.

Neal walked in to a very large room with high ceilings. All the windows – on the ground floor, at least – were either original or reproductions. The glass was slightly wavy – just enough to distort some of the light coming in and the world looking out. Some of the old brick had been artfully exposed, other parts painted with black or burgundy. There were still markings on the floor where the old bar must have sat.

"It still smells like paint." Neal commented.

"Yeah. Noticed that yesterday. Can't find any wet paint, though."

"Latex paint."

"Yeah."

Neal squinted at the walls. "Peter, what kind of paint would you say was used on the brick?"

"Uh, burgundy?"

Neal rolled his eyes, "The finish, Peter. The brick is finished in a semi gloss."

"I'll assume this is going somewhere."

"The back wall – same colour scheme but with a satin finish."

"So they were painted at different times?"

"Possibly." Neal made his way to the back wall with Peter. He knocked on it.

"Drywall." Peter said.

"Gee. I wonder what could possibly be behind it." Neal smiled at Peter.

"I'll take _secret tunnel entrance_ for five hundred, Alex." Peter grinned back.

0o0o0o0o0o

"What are you doing in here?"

"Hiding."

"From what?" Peter asked, sitting down at his desk.

Neal shrugged.

"You nearly beg me to take you to the office today, to escape June's mothering, and now you're hiding. What'd you do?" Peter raised an eyebrow.

Neal gave his best affronted look, "What makes you think I did something?"

"You're you."

Neal frowned.

"Why are you hiding?"

Neal sighed, "They won't stop staring."

Peter chuckled, "I'm not sure whether that statement is paranoid or narcissistic, coming from you."

Neal ignored him and went back to work.

"You're serious? Neal – everywhere we _go_ someone is staring at you." Peter paused, "Women anyway. So why do you suddenly have such a problem with it?"

"Different reasons, Peter. Different reasons. Sitting down there…They're staring at me like I'm the Mona Lisa sitting in the middle of the Louvre."

Peter snorted.

"What?" Neal asked.

"The Mona Lisa – the smile that hides a secret. Fitting."

"Ha ha." Neal replied dryly.

"Oh come on. Lighten up. And would you _stop_ doing that?"

"Doing what?" Neal asked, looking up from his work.

Peter glared, pushing his lips together. "Linking all my paperclips together, Frankenstein."

Neal raised his eyebrows.

"Too much?" Peter opened up a drawer in his desk and furrowed his brow.

Neal nodded, "Going for lunch?"

"Yeah. Going to go meet El."

"Are you going to bring her a ham sandwich too?"

"Did you go through my lunch?"

"Nope. You're just that predictable."

"I don't have devilled ham enough to be predictable."

"It's not devilled ham." Neal corrected.

"So you were snooping."

"Nope."

Peter glared.

Neal smiled, shrugging his shoulders just slightly.

"How'd you know?"

"Your lunch bag was folded over neatly, not crumpled."

"So?"

"So? You're the FBI agent!"

Another glare.

"Fine." Neal caved, wanting to one up Peter. "Folded bag means El packed your lunch. You crumple your bag when you pack it. Plain ham because Elizabeth doesn't like devilled ham-"

"Yes she does!"

"She doesn't like the smell of it."

Peter chuckled, "I think I know my wife a bit better than you."

"Okay." Neal put his hands up, palms out.

Peter narrowed his gaze. "What else, Sherlock?"

"You had cornflakes for breakfast and broke your promise to El to stay away from the Cheetohs. And she knows."

Peter's face reddened, and he appeared flustered. "Do you have your _friends_ spying on me now?"

"Cornflakes were the only cereal in your cupboard a few days ago and – as you've been complaining all week – El has been working late hours. Late hours means she didn't get around to the grocery shopping, and I'm pretty sure you don't know how to. Cheetohs were easy – I heard you make the promise to her, and there's cheese powder on your shirt cuff."

"You think El knows?"

Neal smiled, "I know she knows. Now weren't you going for lunch?"

Peter sighed and glanced back down at the open drawer. "As soon as you give me back my file folder labels."

"Good memory." Neal congratulated.

"Nothing to do with memory, I just figured that's what any five year old would go for." Peter held out his hand.

Neal relinquished them, pushing the small accordion stack across the desk. "I can keep the elastics though, right?"

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**Read & Review Please!**

**I'll post updates despite, but I would *really* appreciate some feedback from the people who add this story as a favourite/put it on alert. Not necessarily all good stuff - let me know if I could do something better too!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Yay. Update. Irony at its finest – I completed this chapter by ignoring my law project…**

**Thanks again to my reviewers – you all rock. Since you all seem to love it – here's some more banter hidden amongst a plot. Or is it the other way around?**

**Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just takin' 'em for a ride - I'll bring them back good as new!**

**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC**WC

"Oh yeah. Yeah – I can see how you'd think that but no - the guy just punched me in the face. My ribs are from Peter's driving. Seatbelt." Neal bobbed his head then held up his left wrist, still wrapped. "I tried to grab the dash. I wouldn't recommend it."

"Ahem."

Neal twisted his head around, looking up from where he sat perched on the corner of Agent Lane's desk. He could hear her muffled snort behind him. "Hi Peter!" Neal said brightly, plastering on a large smile.

Peter glared. "You do realise all these stories get back to me, right?"

"Sure, but by then it's hearsay. You can't get angry with me for that! Didn't you ever play telephone? I say something nice on one end and by the time it gets back to you you're suddenly a horrible driver. How can I be held responsible for that?"

Peter clenched his jaw. "This is the FBI, Neal. Not kindergarten."

Neal shrugged.

"Although, I suppose with you here, one could mistake it for a daycare."

"Can I help you with something, Peter?"

"Yeah_, Junior_, you could help us solve the case we're supposed to be working on."

"Are you calling me a child?"

"A problem child, specifically." Peter corrected.

"I'm not a child."

"Oh yes. Yes you are."

"I'm-"

"Jackie?" Peter asked.

Agent Lane shrugged her shoulders and smiled, "Sorry Neal."

"I-"

"Diana?" Peter asked as she approached with a file folder.

Diana looked at Neal and raised her eyebrows. "You're a child." She turned to Peter, "Something you should see, boss."

"Good. Get Jones and meet me in the conference room." He pointed at Neal, "You too."

Neal made a face, "Could I at least get a coffee first?"

"The last time you left for a coffee you ended up on Agent Lane's desk for twenty minutes so no, you cannot."

Neal sighed, gave Agent Lane one last smile, and started to follow Peter. "Someone gets grumpy without their Cheetohs." Neal stopped as Peter pivoted on one foot and stared him down. Neal grinned and rolled on to his toes, back to his heel. "Did you ask her?"

Peter's glare intensified.

Neal's grin widened, "You did, didn't you? Did she tell you about the ham? Wait, of course she did. That's why you're so angry. What about the Cheesies?"

Peter's eyes narrowed, "She didn't know about the cheesies."

Neal shrugged, trying to look disappointed but unable to withhold a small victorious smile. "Guess I was wrong on that one, huh?"

Peter turned on his heels and continued up the stairs to the conference room. Neal began to follow.

He was just sitting down – carefully so the chair wouldn't tilt backwards and strain his ribs – when Peter spoke up, looking down at the folder Diana had given him.

"So the place is wired?"

"Camera and sound – doorway and stairway. We also put up a cam on the wall."

"Good. Now on the off chance they go back, we'll have 'em." Peter sat down.

"You really want to wait around for an off chance?" Neal asked him from across the table.

"Of course I don't _want_ to, but aside from that and continuing to follow other leads, we've got nothing."

"We have other leads?" Neal smiled.

Peter tapped the table impatiently, "Out with it, Caffrey."

A light knock on the conference room door interrupted. Jones – the closest – swung it open. Miranda – a file clerk – stood at the door, looking nervous. "Uh. I brought –"

"Thanks Miranda. You're great!" Neal interrupted.

Peter shot him a look, "You had the _file clerk_ get you coffee?"

"Her name is Miranda – and you wouldn't let me get my own, Peter. What was I supposed to do? And don't worry – look, she brought one for you too!"

"No."

"No?"

"No." Peter looked at Miranda. "I apologize for Caffrey's antics, you can go now."

"Do...Do you want the coffee?"

"Yes."

"No." Peter corrected with a glare. "We're fine."

"Peter! She went through all that trouble-"

"Whose fault is that?"

"It's right there! It would be rude-"

"Then it can be rude. Someone has to put their foot down with you."

Neal signalled for Miranda to hold on a second. "Can I make a counter offer?"

"This isn't a hostage negotiation, Neal."

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure you'll want to hear my idea."

"If it involves an espresso machine for the conference room-"

"No – I started a petition for that already."

"You started a petition?" Peter asked, doubtful.

"Forty-seven signatures, last count." Neal smiled.

"Do we even _have_ that many people in this office?"

Neal put on his best offended look, "You know Peter – the world doesn't end outside the group in this conference room. You should make a little more effort to meet people."

"Funny." He turned to Miranda, "You can go now."

"Wait! My counter offer."

"Or you could just tell me so I don't send you back to prison."

"You're not being very fair."

"This isn't a democracy."

"Maybe it should be."

"Neal-"

"Fine. We all know that waiting for the thieves to show up is a huge waste of time – they've got to be laying low. So why don't we make them try to break in to the NAC again."

"Oh, I'm sure Thatcher will _love_ that idea."

"We don't have to let them get that far – they just have to show intent, right?"

"It would be a good start. What are you thinking – hanging another piece over the fireplace to entice them?"

"No – we have no idea what would be enticing for them, other than the Kandinsky."

Peter caught on quick, "So we entice them with the Kandinsky."

"Except they already have it." Jones pointed out.

"That's why we have the NAC release a short press release-"

"Saying the Kandinsky stolen was actually a reproduction." Peter smiled.

"Can I have my coffee now?"

"No."

"How do we know they'll even attempt the Kandinsky again?" Diana asked Peter.

"Well, if we're right about the theft being personal, my guess is they're not going to want to settle for a fake. It's not the cash value for these guys – the painting actually _means_ something to them."

"What about the police presence?" Jones asked. "They have to know the area has been under surveillance." He pointed out.

"Possibly, but I still think it could work if we remove everyone from the area and release the statement from the NAC." Peter explained. "We can keep tabs on it from a distance."

"It'd work even better if we get it out that our working theory is an inside job." Neal pulled out the elastic ball he'd made – courtesy of Peter's supply – from his pocket.

Peter's eyes narrowed from across the table, but he said nothing. Neal raised his eyebrows. "So?" He started passing the elastic ball back and forth between hands, watching Peter's expression from the corner of his eye.

"We could. Try to make them believe we're none the wiser." Peter mused.

"And it's not like they'd have to develop the plan – they've already got it." Diana nodded.

Peter let out a sigh, "No guarantee it'll come together, but at the moment I think it's our best chance. I'll run it by Hughes and see what he has to say."

Neal tossed the ball in the air, immediately regretting it. Who knew arms movement was so correlated with chest wall movement? Still, he kept his eye on Peter who, he was sure, was avoiding his gaze. With his moment of inattention the ball slipped from his grasp and bounced across the glass table.

"Oh for – Go get your coffee!" Peter pointed to the door, face red.

Jones and even Diana – he was surprised to see – were holding back grins of their own as he gave Peter a half smile and stood up. Jones held up the elastic ball for him.

"Oh no, nu uh. That's mine now." Peter held out his hand.

"Sounds like a fair trade." Neal said, slipping from the room. Behind him Peter shook his head.

0o0o0o0o0o

"You have got to be kidding me." Jeffery Thatcher said, sitting across from Peter in the office at the National Arts Club.

"We feel it's the best chance of recovery." Peter reaffirmed.

"It would reflect very poorly on this association. We'd be put under scrutiny – members would have their doubts as to the authenticity of any of our pieces."

Neal watched as Peter leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. They had been sitting in this office dancing this _good cop _dance for the last thirty minutes – Thatcher was being notoriously uncooperative.

"With all due respect, Mr. Thatcher, your _association_'sreputation is already at risk – right now a lot of people in a lot of high places already think you're a laughing stock –"

"Neal." Peter interrupted, giving him a warning glance.

"No. He should know the truth, Peter. He needs to hear this." Neal gave him a look. A look that hopefully conveyed he wasn't – despite really wanting to – just being an asshole.

"Jeffery." Neal fixed the man with his full attention, "We both know that in the world of prosperity, reputation is everything. Right now I can tell you that your members doubt this establishment can even guarantee its bottom line of confidentiality." Neal paused, ensuring Thatcher was taking the bait.

He learned forward. "If you do this, and you keep what you know quiet, there's a good chance you'll have that Kandinsky back over your fireplace by the end of the week. Once that happens, well." He shrugged, "We can't stop you from telling your members what they'd like to hear, including how you felt that the FBI may or may not have strong armed you into making this decision."

Neal glanced at Peter, giving him a slight now.

"So what do you say, Mr. Thatcher?" Peter raised his eyebrows, "You want your painting and your reputation, or do you want us to pack up, head back to the office and start working mortgage frauds?"

Neal slipped through the front door as Peter finished up with Thatcher. Standing under the burgundy overhang, hands in his pockets, he gazed across the street at the park. It was busier today – not that busy was anywhere near Washington Square Park busy. A group of three yuppie joggers were doing the outside circle, passing an elderly lady with a leashed Yorkshire Terrier. A young couple sat on one of the stone benches sharing a meal.

Just like any other park.

_Not just like any other park. Other parks don't have keys that cost nineteen hundred dollars._

"It's just a park, Neal." Peter said from behind him.

Neal shuffled forward, taking his hands out of his pockets. "No, it's not."

"You're lucky I don't knock your head off, by the way?"

"Why? What'd I do?" Neal asked, standing by the car door.

"How the FBI _strong armed him in to making this decision_." Peter gave him an expectant look.

"I'm pretty sure I said _felt that_ in front of FBI which, if I recall correctly, makes it covered by first amendment rights."

"Nonetheless." Peter rolled his eyes.

"Oh come on Peter – Thatcher's a pompous ass. He was going to run those rumours no matter what I said. That's what guys like him are good at – blaming others." Neal lowered himself in to the car.

"I see the park has made you grumpy again." Peter said, getting in a moment later.

Neal didn't say a word, turned to look out the side window.

Peter suddenly made a small noise of understanding, "I don't think it was personal, Neal."

"What?"

"You know what. Don't play games with me."

"He wouldn't even look at me, how is that not personal? He thinks he's better than everyone else around – you know if this were five or six years ago I'd have-"

"Still had me chasing you. Neal – he wouldn't look at you for the same reason no one else in that club would look at you, and it has nothing to do with being an art thief."

"Alleged"

"Whatever. In case you've forgotten, you're not exactly a jewel to look at right now. Instead of staring, some people just don't look at all."

Neal let out a sigh. "Not personal." He muttered.

"Nope. They just don't want to look at your ugly mug. And really, I can't blame them – purple and green just aren't your color."

Neal let a small smile took over, "I've been told different."

"Yeah, well. As a skin color – not recommended."

"I'll try and keep that in mind."

"Oh, so you won't throw coffee at anyone anymore?"

Neal turned to his partner, "How'd you know about that? I didn't…Oh."

Peter nodded in affirmation. "I have the pleasure of being cc'd every single government report on you, including police reports."

"Sounds fun."

"Nope. Just lots of paperwork."

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	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: TGIF. I spent the latter part of class this afternoon hammering this out. I blame the prof for having enough talent to make criminal cases sound boring…**

**Thank you everyone who left reviews, they make me smile and encourage me to daydream in class!**

**Special thanks to Steph whose detailed reviews make me ****blush**** and smile : )**

**Disclaimer: Sadly I don't own White Collar or anything remotely related to it. I do accept donations, however.**

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"Give me that."

Neal looked up at Peter, who was holding out his hand in Neal's direction expectantly. "Why?" he asked defensively.

Peter gave him a look.

"I'm not making any noise." Neal said, wide eyed.

"For once."

"For once." Neal shrugged. "So why are you complaining?"

"Because your-"Peter paused, then continued, "Lemon, keeps flying off your finger and hitting me in the head."

"Oh? I didn't notice." Neal mused, looking down at the lemon scented – and shaped – piece of cardboard. The small white elastic string meant for hanging it over a rear view mirror was hooked around the index finger of his right hand.

"I'm sure you didn't." Peter stated dryly, still holding out his hand.

"I'll stop, just let me keep it."

Peter narrowed his eyes.

"Come on, Peter. It's not like the smell of your sandwich is _improving_ the smell in here." Neal eyed his partner, who finally shook his head and dropped his hand.

"If it hits me in the head one more time-"

"It won't." Neal promised, holding his right hand up, palm forward with his thumb crossed over his little finger. "Scout's honor."

"Were you even a boy scout?" Peter asked, doubtful.

"What do you think?" he asked, dropping his right hand with a smile.

"I think you're trying to deflect me."

Neal shrugged, leaning back slightly.

"I see your wrist has been freed of its restraint."

"At last."

"How's it feeling?" Peter asked in a moment of seriousness.

"Good enough to do this." Neal told him, spinning the lemon around the index finger of his left hand with the little string hoop. The door to the truck opened and Neal jumped slightly, a small rush of adrenalin tightening his chest. Neal felt the lemon air freshener fly off his finger as Jones stepped in to the truck with a tray of coffees. He turned to Peter, who was now holding the offending object.

"To be fair, it didn't hit you in the head." Neal pointed out.

"Uh huh. You're lucky I don't hit _you _in the head." Peter replied, tossing the yellow cardboard in to the plastic deli bag that served as a garbage.

"Guess I got back just in time." Jones said, setting the coffees down on the desk.

"Yeah, you managed to get back right between a boring moment, and an incredibly dull moment." Neal told him as Jones held out a coffee for Peter.

"Take it I didn't miss much?"

"Nada." Peter sighed. "I'm beginning to regret insisting on taking this shift."

"I also regret your insistence." Neal raised an eyebrow, "I-"

"If you say I told you so, I _will_ hit you in the head."

"- conveyed my similar feelings earlier." Neal finished. "It's not I told you so if I didn't use the words, right?" Neal asked Jones.

"I'm pretty sure the end result is the same thing." Jones said, holding back a smile for Peter's sake.

"There's no way you could have known they wouldn't show up tonight." Peter told him.

"You mean the same way I couldn't have known they wouldn't show up last night? Or the night before?"

"It's only eleven." Peter insisted.

Neal sighed, "Don't remind me." He started tapping his fingers against the paper coffee cup in rapid succession. He checked his watch. _Four more hours. _He sighed again, starting to tap his foot as well. He thought longingly of his bed. _I wish -_

"Neal!"

He glanced up from the plastic lid of his coffee in surprise and slight annoyance. "What?"

"Would you just _stop_. Relax. Go for a walk – anything. You're like a three year old on a sugar high."

"I don't like doing nothing." Neal defended himself.

Peter sighed, "To keep Jones and I sane – and only because we have to deal with you for another four hours – I'll let you, and even strongly insist, that you go for a walk."

"Done." Neal smiled, getting up from his chair. His ribs ached slightly, but the pain was significantly more manageable than it had been a few days ago.

"Try not to be seen."

Neal turned to Peter, raising his eyebrows as if to say, _Do I look that stupid?_

Peter shrugged and waved him away. Neal was just stepping out of the truck as Peter called, "And don't throw coffee at anyone!"

_Funny_, he thought sarcastically, shutting the door behind him. It wasn't until he was about twenty paced from the truck he felt uneasy. He glanced around and saw nothing – no one skulking in the shadows. The sounds of the city didn't drop to an unnoticeable level and no lights were out or flickering as they would in a movie. He could, however, feel his heart pounding in his chest.

_You're being an idiot. You're just all freaked out because last time you were here some little jerks decided it'd be fun to fracture some of your ribs._

With another glance around Neal shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. _Fear defeats more people than any other one thing in the world. _Neal smiled as he realised his internal voice had taken on a Moz-inspired inflection. He took a sip of his coffee and almost spit it out.

_Where had Jones gotten this coffee from?_ It tasted so much like the coffee back at the office Neal briefly pondered whether Jones had driven back there for it just to torture Neal. He dropped it in a garbage can as he passed.

Neal was nearly at the door before he realised he was in front of Sunburst. _Real coffee._ He opened the door, scanning the counter for Madison. She was wiping down counters around the machines.

"Slow night?" he asked, grin on his face.

Madison looked up and smiled, "Look at you – significantly less road-kill like."

"I try hard." He shrugged.

Madison snorted. "So what brings you back here?"

"I am in need of a _real_ coffee. Something that doesn't taste like burnt mud."

"I make no promises – cortado?"

"Am I that transparent?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

Neal smiled, "Nope."

"Didn't think so." She paused, putting down the blue cloth. "So ah, how are you doing after…That?"

"Guess I must've looked like a mess that night – how's school going, sew your finger to anything yet?"

"You always do that?"

"What?"

"Deflect."

Neal paused, then looked her in the eye. "I'm good. Better. I can breathe now, so that's a start."

"Breathing usually does help." She nodded her head, biting her lip. Their conversation stopped as she made the espresso. He took a look around the shop. He hadn't taken notice before, but spotted three people sitting in a far corner booth. They looked young enough to be students. Probably were, he thought, eyeing the papers spread out over their table. A thin blonde girl looked up at him as Madison finished up his drink. Neal shot her a smile, but turned back to Madison.

"I can't believe you're here." She told him, handing him his coffee.

"You told me to come back." He pointed out, holding out a five.

Maddy waved his hand away and shrugged, "I just figured…you know. I guess with guys it's different." Neal furrowed his brow, trying to track her train of thought. She must have noticed because she continued with "If it had been me, attacked like that, I wouldn't be within a mile of this place."

He thought about the feeling he'd had earlier and felt his lips twitch at the thought of asking Peter to readjust his anklet's midpoint so he could avoid the area and still have his two miles. Neal held up his coffee, "This is worth coming back for." He dropped the five in her tip jar.

"Oh, and here I thought it was my company." She grinned.

"Mostly the coffee."

"Maybe I should ask for my towel back then."

"Just don't ask for the ice back."

"Smartass. So really – you're just a glutton for punishment?"

"Yeah. Punishment's not really my thing. I don't judge though, if you are." He said, grinning.

"You know what I meant."

"Like I said," he smiled, "I don't judge."

"You're insuperable."

"Good word!"

"My word of the day calendar is pretty smart."

Neal laughed, "People actually use those?"

"Once a week or so." Madison shrugged with a smile.

"I'd hate to have a conversation with you on one of those days…Though I know someone who could probably give you a run for your money."

"Bring it."

"I'll be sure to tell Moz your challenge."

"Moz…Is that the guy who was here before?"

"Yeah – that was Moz alright."

"He seemed –"

"Weird?"

She gave him a half smile, "I was going to say inimitable, but I guess I can dumb it down for you."

He smiled and glanced at his watch. Two of the girls – both brunettes- from the corner booth left the shop. He glanced over, the blonde was still sitting there, watching her friends go. "I should probably get going, before Peter calls the cops on me."

"Who's Peter?"

"My…Partner."

Madison nodded in understanding, "So you're-"

"Not that kind of partner." Neal corrected. "Work partner."

"Oh." She flushed. "Where do you work?"

"I'm a consultant."

"What do you consult on?"

"Thefts, fraud, forgeries." He shrugged.

"You're a cop?"

"No – definitely not a cop." Neal laughed. Yet part of him wanted to claim that status - part of him wanted to tell her he was with the FBI. For the reaction, maybe, but also for…_The pride_. He admitted to himself. When he cracked a case or came up with some crazy solution for Peter, part of him felt like he used to when he'd been running _from_ Peter. Conning the FBI or conning criminals – it was all the same high. Proving he could – that he was worthy, _an equal._

"So…"

"I'm a consultant for the FBI." He studied her face carefully for a reaction.

Madison pressed her lips together in thought, briefly. "Cool. You like it?"

"It has its moments." _When we're not in the van._

"Bet it beats this place."

"You've got better coffee."

Madison laughed. "With your friend last time, and you being beat up, I guess I kind of assumed you were…Let's say on the other side of the law."

"Oh. I've been there too." He grinned.

"Yeah?" Neal lifted up his pantleg and she let out a long whistle. "That sucks. What'd ya do?"

"Thefts, fraud, forgeries."

She laughed again. "Do what you know."

"Indeed. I should go, though. He really will call the cops on me."

Madison smiled, "Try not to get beat up tonight."

"It's not like I _tried_ the last time." He pointed out.

She looked thoughtful for a moment, "Try not to spill your coffee on anyone tonight, then."

"Not the first time I've heard that tonight."

"Probably means you should heed the advice."

"I'll keep that in mind." He smiled, pushing the door open. "Have a good night."

"Likewise."

Neal stepped out into the night and started back towards the van. As he turned down East 19th the unease set in once more. As he passed a car he blinked away the déjà vu, then stopped. His stomach twisted in to a knot and he listened carefully, holding his breath. City sounds. No footsteps behind him. He scoured the darkness for hidden figures.

_Stop it_.

Neal took a step backwards and pivoted, heading in the other direction. He'd just walk around the block, calm his nerves. _Coffee probably wasn't a bright idea._ The fall of his Italian leather shoes barely made a sound on the sidewalk as he started down East 20th towards the NAC and Gramercy Park. This route wouldn't even take him past the alley from the other night.

As the NAC came closer Neal could smell the slightly sweet smell of cigar smoke. He inhaled and smiled, reminding him of the countless nights he and Moz had spent – sometimes with Kate, though more often with Alex – smoking a good cigar and drinking vintage wine. Playing chess, discussing heists, the danger and the intrigue. It was probably those moments that they'd all been most content – most at ease. Like excited kids about to go on a trip or something.

As he approached, Neal could see a man – probably in his sixties – with salt and pepper hair standing under the burgundy awning of the Arts Club. Neal flashed him a smile and nodded.

"Nice night." The gentleman commented, deep voice resonating.

"Certainly is." Neal said, stopping.

"You'd be able to see the stars if we weren't in the city."

"You from the country?" Neal asked.

"Born in Hardwick, New York."

"Long way from home." Neal commented. "What brings you to the city?"

The man smiled, a plume of cigar smoke billowing from his mouth. "The only thing that could bring a country man to the city."

"When love is not madness, it is love."

The man nodded, "Spoken by someone who knows."

Neal nodded, looking down at the sidewalk.

"And someone who has felt its loss."

Neal looked at the man, surprised.

"Everything you need to know of a man is in his eyes and his handshake."

Neal grinned, holding out his hand. "Neal Caffrey."

The elderly man took Neal's hand, shaking it firmly. "Henry Masters. You can call me Hank."

"Nice to meet you, Hank. You get tired of the party?" he asked, nodding towards the NAC.

"Tired of the company, mostly."

Neal grinned, "Nothing quite like a roomful of –"

"Pompous assholes?"

Neal couldn't hold back a bark of laughter.

"I only come for Evelyn. Generations of her family have been members here. I suppose it's important for her to carry on the tradition."

"You two have children?"

"One. She moved to California. Not interested in tradition whatsoever – wants to blaze her own trail, that one."

"She must have the spirit of her father."

"And the wit and charm of her mother."

"Sounds dangerous."

The man chuckled, "I've seen the casualties."

Neal smiled, hands in his pockets.

"You smoke?" Hank asked, holding out his cigar.

"I won't say no to a Vintage Robusto." Neal said, accepting the cigar.

"Good eye." Hank turned to him. "So what is it you do, Mr. Caffrey?"

"I'm a consultant."

"To whom?"

Neal gave Hank back his cigar. "The FBI." He smiled wistfully.

"What does one have to do to be a consultant for the FBI?"

_Get caught and tried for bond forgery, spend some time in jail then negotiate a tenuous release into their custody._ Neal snuck a look at the man and, on a whim, repeated his thoughts.

Hank roared with laughter. "I like you, kid. Honest, to the point."

"A convicted felon." Neal commented.

Hank cleared his throat, "You remind me of myself. Never bright enough to pull of the capers I suspect you're worthy of, but I partook in my share of shenanigans."

Neal flashed him a smile.

"Yes. I can see how you could easily charm your way in to trouble."

"And out of."

Hank clasped him on the shoulder and Neal winced as pain shot through his chest, though Hank didn't seem to notice. _Time for a pill._ "I should go find my wife, before she negotiates another land deal. Care to join me?"

Neal hesitated, glancing at his watch. Tempting. _Peter might kill me. Or Jeffery, if he sees me inside. Peter didn't really give me a timeline for my walk. He'd call if they needed me._ "Just for a few minutes - I'd like to meet the woman who managed to get a country man to leave the stars for the city."

Neal followed Hank back inside, holding the door as he passed through into the entrance hall. He could hear a cacophony of voices coming from the direction of the parlour and wasn't surprised when that was the direction Hank headed. They passed a couple leaving – the man in a nice suit jacket and tailored pants, the woman in a silver floor length dress. He raised his eyebrows at Hank, who smiled an '_I told you so_ smile'.

"Neal, this is my amazing wife of forty-two years, Jackie." Hank introduced him to an elegant looking elderly woman, hair perfectly coiffed. "Jackie, this is Neal Caffrey. We met outside."

Neal gave the smiling woman one of his most charming grins. Her smile grew, "He has that same charismatic smile you do, Henry."

Neal scanned the crowd, noting the Kandinsky replicate hanging over the fireplace. A poor replicate. _I could have done better. Much better._ He turned back to Hank and Jackie, but a pair of eyes caught his attention from across the room.

Jeffery. And he didn't look too pleased, Neal noted. He turned back to the couple, listening to their chatter, as Jeffery made a beeline towards them. Neal didn't want to run off, but he wasn't really in the mood for a scene. "I should probably go." Neal interrupted the couple.

"But you just got here!" Jackie argued.

"And now he's leaving." Jeffery said, having finally arrived. He clamped a heavy hand on Neal's shoulder and didn't let go.

"Oh come off it, Jeffery." Jackie told the man.

"This man is not a member of this club, nor will he ever be. Only members are allowed in this establishment." Jeffery began steering Neal away, who ducked from under his hand.

"I can find my own way out, Mr. Thatcher."

"I have no doubt. I'm just ensuring nothing leaves with you."

"He's not hurting anyone, Jeff. Let him mingle for a bit and then we'll all go." Hank spoke up.

"Do you know who this man is?" Jeffery hissed at the couple quietly.

"Yes, his name is Neal Caffrey and he's an honest, reasonable man." Hank replied.

"Honest! This man is a thief!"

"Alleged." Neal corrected, once more ducking from under Jefferey's hand.

"Oh, who isn't? Nearly everyone here is a thief or cheat!" Hank raised his voice.

Neal felt his cheeks redden, and held out his hand to Hank, "It was a pleasure to meet you Henry, Jackie, but I think it'd be best if I leave."

"No one leaves." A voice said, loudly, from behind Neal.

The room quieted, and Neal turned around with them. A woman with long blond hair stood five feet away, blocking the entrance to the parlour. _She looks familiar._ The woman from the espresso bar – the student.

Alone, the woman was thin and fragile looking. Only the anger and desperation on her face seemed threatening.

That and the gun she held.

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**Soooo..? **

***Rolls back and forth on her feet, hands in pockets***

**What'd ya think…? Read & Review Please!**

**And yes – this story is slowly/quickly nearing completion. Please don't hurt me. **

**(Hopefully it won't be my last!)**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry I've taken so long to update – been busy with school. Oh, and I found myself driving half way across the country. I tried to update beforehand but it failed. Horribly.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own White Collar or anything to do with it – just allowing my muse to take the characters for a ride. I'll return them in one piece. Mostly.**

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Neal felt his throat go dry, so much so that he had trouble just swallowing. He found himself eyeing the gun, taking it in with a quick mental checklist. Glock 19. Loaded – yes. Safety – off. Shooter's hand – shaking.

Not good. He quietly took a deep breath, mentally calming himself. Guns: Permanent results too quickly. No intelligence or imagination required.

_Or experience_ he thought, watching as the woman's hand continued to tremble. Not that he liked having guns pointed at him – _which seemed to be happening a lot lately _– but if he could choose he'd much rather have someone pointing it who knew what they were doing. There were no accidents that way – the experienced tended not to overreact.

"Don't move! Everyone just stay where you are!. Wait. No. Everyone over there!" the woman screamed, gesturing towards the bar to the left of the fireplace with her gun.

_Like that._

Neal, unwilling to turn his back to a loaded gun, backed away slowly hands around shoulder height. The international sign of surrender, short of a white flag. Beside him Jeffery was backing up as well, while Hank and Jackie were just behind him.

The woman stepped forward as they all moved toward the bar.

"Everyone on the floor."

Neal took a moment to glance around, taking a quick look around. About fifteen people. He turned back to the blonde just as her eyes started darting sideways repeatedly. Neal stole a glance.

The Kandinsky – or the fake on, at least.

"What do you want?" Thatcher demanded. The woman turned back to the crowd.

"The painting. I want the real painting, right there."

Neal tried to hide his surprise. All this time they'd been looking for someone connected to the Kandinksy, he'd assumed the thief or thieves would be familiar with the painting.

Or at least able to spot a bad forgery.

"Well-" Thatcher began.

"Take it." Neal interrupted, shooting a glance at Jeffery. _Don't tell her it's fake. Just keep your mouth shut, Thatcher._

"You," the woman pointed at Neal with the glock. "Take it down."

Neal set his jaw, slowly getting to his feet and keeping his hands in sight. "I'll need a knife."

"You think I'm stupid?" the woman screamed, taking a step closer.

He tried not to flinch, composing himself. "No. Anyone who can identify a valuable Kandinsky is an intelligent person. You look a little nervous and I thought maybe you'd forgotten that the canvas would need to be cut from the frame. I think we both know you can't just run down the street with a large painting." He spoke slowly, concentrating on delivery. Gentle voice. Non threatening.

"Don't tell me how I feel! You don't know how I feel!" She took another step closer.

Neal raised his hands a bit higher, unable to step backwards without falling in to someone's lap. He contemplated trying to correct the perceived assumption, but decided silence was probably the better response right now. He watched the black barrel in front of him, pointed at his chest, start to waver less as the woman slowly calmed down.

"Fine." She pointed at Jackie, "You come here. You stay with me for now."

"Let me." Hank offered, getting ready to stand.

"I said her!"

Neal turned, watched as Jackie stood up, pale faced. Hank, still sitting on the floor, looked both angry and worried.

"You. Go find something at the bar. If you try something, I'll shoot her."

Neal nodded and swallowed the thick lump in his throat, making his way to the bar. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt his phone vibrate against his leg. His first reaction was to turn around, check whether anyone – namely the woman – had heard it or not, but he kept making his way to the bar. No one stopped him.

As soon as he was behind the bar he began rummaging the counter – slowly – with his left hand and pulled out his phone with the right. He glanced up, finding the woman's eyes flickering between him and the group of people.

"Please. Don't hurt my wife." Hank told the woman.

Neal smiled as the blond's attention focused on Hank. He quickly checked his phone, still looking behind the bar.

You can come back

now. Fun's over.

2 in custody.

He paused, confused for a moment. _Bet the two in custody are two brunette women_ he thought, remembering the two other women at the espresso bar. He wrote back, pretending to rummage through a drawer.

3rd NAC

Blond w Gun.

15 hstgs.

"Hurry up!" the woman demanded, sticking the gun in to Jackie's ribs.

Neal clenched his teeth. "I'm trying." He took the small paring knife he'd found and slid it beside a stack of napkins on the second shelf, then continued to search the bar. He kept his gaze constantly switching between the counter, the woman and his phone as he sent Mozzie a quick message. He'd just pocketed a butane lighter when his phone vibrated in his hand.

Where are

You?

Peter. He could imagine his partner's reaction as he sent back a message.

Inside.

Parlor.

_Of course_ Peter would be muttering, rolling his eyes. _Where else would he be?_

Neal stifled a grin and glanced up just as the woman started taking a few steps towards the bar, still holding Jackie. He grabbed the paring knife from the shelf and held it up. "Got one."

"Cut it out of the frame."

Neal made his way over to the fireplace, reaching up and unfixing the forgery from the wall. He set it against the fireplace and knelt down, cutting slowly around the canvas.

Someone's phone rang. The room seemed to hold its breath.

"Whose phone is that?" The blond demanded, taking the gun from Jackie's ribs and pointing it at the group again.

Neal shot a glance over his shoulder as a white faced woman in an evening gown held her phone up in offering.

"Everyone throw their phones over there." She directed, pointing towards the doorway. The gun was back at Jackie's ribs as some people hesitantly began reaching in to their pockets and purses. "I said everyone!" the woman screamed, waving the gun again. More people jumped in to action this time.

Neal turned back to diligently cutting the painting out of the frame, shoulders tense.

"You too."

Neal knew, instinctively, that she was speaking to him. Unfinished thoughts raced through his head. _Could tell her I don't have one…hide it…where…palm it… canvas…shoot me._

He turned to find the gun pointed at him. Neal let go of the canvas, reaching in to his pocket showing her the phone. He'd sent his messages already. Hopefully were well received. He tossed it across the floor with the rest and picked up the roll of canvas. He held it out tentatively. "Let the lady go, and you can take this and leave."

"Don't tell me what to do."

Neal felt his heart jump as she stepped forward, thrusting the gun towards him. He raised his hands, canvas still in them. "Like I said before, you're an intelligent woman." Though he prided himself on never – okay, rarely – lying, semantics probably weren't the way to go right now. These people have had their phones this whole time, you really think they haven't contacted the police somehow?" He swallowed, watching her contemplate his words.

"Give it here."

He held out the painting and she grabbed it from his hands, pushing Jackie in to them. The elderly woman let out her first audible sign of distress as a whimper. Neal pushed her behind him. "You have the painting. Now would be a good time to leave."

The woman spun wildly towards the group, pointing her gun at Jeffery. "What?"

Thatcher froze, going pale. "I..I-"

"What did you say? I heard you say something!"

Thatcher stuttered and the woman pointed the gun at a woman sitting behind him. "What did he say?" she demanded, voice rising.

"He said…" The woman looked tentatively at the man beside her, presumably her husband. Neal watched at the man subtly moved his head to the side, deterring her from the truth.

A loud shot filled the room and Neal couldn't help but flinch backwards, holding his hands slightly in front of him. _As though that would actually stop a bullet._ Several women screamed, but one woman above the rest.

"Oh my god! Robert! Robert?"

Neal turned from the shooter and saw the woman who'd been interrogated holding her husband – presumably Robert – in her arms.

"What did he say?" The woman screamed in anger shaking her gun at them.

Neal eyed the woman as her attention was focused on the crowd. _I could – no. No heroics. You aren't a hero. You'll end up shot and dead or shot with Peter even more pissed at you. No. You'll stay right in this very spot._

No cape for you. That's what Peter would say. After something along the lines of _you stupid…I can't even let you out of my sight! A walk – you go for a walk and end up as a hostage!_

"You two get over there!"

Neal, with Jackie clinging to his arm, made his way towards the main group.

The blond woman began backing toward the hallway, kicking cellphones out of her way as she went. The gun was still on them. Neal could hear Robert's wife crying and talking to her husband. Beside him Hank embraced Jackie.

As soon as the woman disappeared in to the hallway Neal turned and grabbed a towel from the bar and knelt beside Robert. "This your husband?" Neal asked the woman. She looked up at him and, as she was distracted, Neal pushed the towel tightly against Robert's bleeding chest. The man gasped slightly, opening his eyes.

"Oh my – Robert? Robert?" His wife began to sob, leaning over him. Her hair fell against Robert's face as she kissed his forehead.

"Can't…" Robert started, then seemed to pull in another breath with great effort. "Breathe."

"What do we do? What can we do?" His wife asked.

"I…An ambulance should be here soon." Neal stammered. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. Gunshot wounds. Pressure. Stop the bleeding and…Blank. Neal felt his heart pounding in his chest, fighting a moment of panic. Was there something else? There was something else. _Damn it_.

"Robert? What should we do?"

Neal opened his eyes to find Robert's wife leaning over her husband again. "I think –"

"I don't care what you think!" The woman snapped. "He's a doctor – I'm asking him!"

Though he knew it wasn't personal Neal felt his face redden.

"This is your fault, you know!" Jeffery chose that moment to break in. "You and your stupid partner's fault! You wait until my lawyer hears about this, you two will be out of the FBI so fast you won't even – "

"FBI? You're part of the FBI?" A man in a tailored suit asked.

"I work _with_ the FBI." Neal made the distinction.

"And if you guys hadn't made this stupid set up we'd all be fine! You-"

"Shut up!" Robert's wife screamed at Jeffery.

Neal felt a slight twinge of relief and…smugness. At least _that_ hadn't been directed at him. Robert's wife looked at him.

"He said we need to cover his wound."

Neal raised his eyebrows, looking at the bloodied towel in his hands. He looked away again, feeling his stomach turn.

"Not with a towel – with plastic."

_Punctured lung._ Neal nearly sighed in relief as the memory came, almost thankful for the first time a gun had been shoved in his face. He'd made it out of that – talking his way out, of course - and promptly started reading up on the basics. He hadn't met Chris until much later. Though he wasn't a fan of guns, he was even less of a fan than being unprepared for things like this. Plans, escapes, entrances – all that could be improvised. This kind of thing, not so much.

"Taped on three sides." Neal said, looking at the wife for approval. She nodded. "I'll get it." He stood up and dashed behind the bar. Plastic. He surveyed behind the bar. _Plastic…Plastic…_ Of course this wouldn't be easy. The lump returned to his throat as he began shuffling through stuff. _What, no one's ever heard of a Ziploc bag around here?_

It was probably a good thing Peter was – hopefully – waiting outside by now. He couldn't quite remember what would happen without sealing the wound – something to do with air pressure – but he was willing to bet it wasn't good. _Come on Peter. Get in here already._

Neal was reaching for a roll of packing tape when there was a crack and the sound of glass breaking behind him. He crouched instinctively, turning his head away.

_What the –_

Neal felt liquid – alcohol, from the shelves of bottles behind him – soaking in to his suit jacket. He reached up, feeling for glass in his hair and stood up slowly. A ball formed in his stomach as he saw the blonde woman standing at the entrance to the parlour, gun and canvas still in hand.

He hated being right. Sometimes. This time, anyway.

"Who called them?" she asked quietly. There was no need to scream because no one was making a sound. Except for one.

"Him. It was probably him. He's FBI."

_What…? Not good._ Neal wiped the dumbfounded expression from his face and shot Thatcher a glare. He hoped that his dying words would be to Peter, and that he could tell him to put that asshole in prison. Maybe he should write a note.

"Is that true?" The woman turned to him, gun pointed.

Neal shook his head slowly, "I'm not really _part_ of the FBI."

"I don't believe you."

"I get a lot of that." Neal replied, spotting a roll of heavy duty tinfoil.

"Get over here."

He held up the tape and tinfoil, "That man – he needs this stuff to live. You _don't_ want anyone dying. That much I do know." Neal waited, unmoving.

No one in the room seemed to make a sound – even Robert's wife had quieted.

"Fine." She waved her gun towards the man. Neal let out a relieved breath. "Give it to someone else. You and I are going to have a chat."

So much for being relieved.

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**Guilty as charged – it's a comparatively short chapter. Blame my muse for being incredibly absent as of late. R&R please – could use the inspiration!**


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I _know_ I'm a horrible person for leaving this story hanging for so long and I'm sorry. No excuses, just an apology and promise that I will try _very hard_ to get out another chapter soon.

I don't own – so don't sue!

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Neal, with his hands at about waist level, approached Robert and his wife with the roll of tin foil. Between his heart jackhammering in his chest and his mind racing towards some semblance of a plan he felt dizzy. A pain lanced through his chest as it tightened.

No.

No. This isn't happening right now. Breathe. Breathe. He inhaled sharply, feeling the pain and concentrating on it.

"Keep moving!" The woman yelled from the doorway.

Neal opened his eyes, not realising until then he'd stopped and closed them. Dizzy. He could work with dizzy. His eyes met Jackie's, as though trying to tell her something.

Then he fell.

He landed just short of where and, upon hitting the floor, wished he hadn't.

Everything hurt. He was on fire. He'd been recovering nicely, but even the small fall reminded him he wasn't to his normal stamina yet.

"Are you okay?" Jackie asked, leaning over him.

Neal groaned, muttering something. She moved closer to listen. "The fireplace is a tunnel. Get out if you can." Before she could give him away, Neal loudly proclaimed he was fine, wincing but slowly rolling to his feet. His hand touched one of the bar rags he'd grabbed to stop Robert's bleeding. He pocketed it as he passed the tinfoil and tape to the wife.

"Get up! Enough of this!"

Neal stood, slowly though as now his head really _was_ spinning. He tried to take inventory of everything going on around him, trying to put something –anything – together. If he could get this woman out into the hall – maybe Jeffery's office – the others would have a chance at escaping. Everyone except for Robert, that was.

And him.

But that brought the count down to thirteen – two hostages was better than fifteen. At least it was for the escaped hostages. Not so much for him or Robert, he mused. He couldn't help but feel messaging Peter had been a mistake – had he not, they'd all probably be fine and free by now. The woman with the gun would be long gone. He pictured her whimsically running down the street with the fake Kandinsky as peter sat in the surveillance van unaware.

"Get over here. Now." The woman gestured with the gun.

Neal eyed her. She looked vaguely like someone he knew from a long time ago. He tried to recall her name. Something with an 'A'. Anna? Amanda? Amy. It was Amy.

The Amy-lookalike directed him towards her with the gun.

_More flies with honey._

Neal held his tongue careful not to incite her unstable wrath by citing the idioms that popper into his head. Peter would be proud. He moved towards her slowly, once again arms at surrendering height.

"Into the hall."

Neal breathed a sigh of relief, forcing himself not to turn around and share a look with Jackie. _Get out_, he thought. _Get them all out_. As he stepped in to the hall he glanced towards the front door, seeing police cars out front. The red and blue rotating lights reflected against the walls and carpet.

He took a few steps towards Jefferey's office before Amy directed him to stop. He turned. Neal Caffrey – not for the first time – had a gun on him. No vest, no backup and no weapon; except his wit and charm.

0o0o0o0o

Peter stormed – literally – from the back of the surveillance truck as two NYPD squad cars raced down the street, parking themselves in front of the NAC. "Those stupid, stupid-"

Left in the truck, Diana and Jones shared a look. They jumped up to follow as the door slammed shut behind Peter. Someone was about to lose something.

Peter charged straight for the officer who appeared to be in charge, directing his officers to surround the front entrance. He read the man's shield: Sgt. Campbell. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The officer, in the midst of giving an order on his radio, stopped and turned towards him.

Peter stopped right in front of him, straightening his shoulders. If only Neal could see his face now, he'd never again say Peter couldn't do _bad cop_. The officer seemed to visibly shrink. "Don't answer that" Peter barked shaking his head and holding up his badge. "FBI. Special Agent Burke. Do you realise you've just raced onto a scene of a hostage situation? Do you realise what will happen if – Forget this. Get your men out of the way! Out of sight – _now_."

Just as he finished there was a response in the officer and his men – just not that one Peter had been asking for. Around him police radios crackled; "Subject located."

Peter turned towards the burgundy awning of the NAC to see a woman of average height and average build holding a rolled up canvas. And a gun. She had just approached the front doors and, seeing the police, locked the door and rushed back where she had come from.

Presumably the parlour, if Neal's message still held true.

Peter set his jaw, rubbing his palm over his face. Dammit. "Sergeant Campbell?"

"Yes sir?"

"I suggest you get a few of your men over to Eat 19th Street, behind this building. There's an alternate exit there."

"Yes sir."

"And Campbell?"

The Sergeant turned back towards Peter. "Yes sir?"

"You'd better hope my partner doesn't get killed in there, or I'll come after your badge." Peter began walking away. "Now would be a good time to update ESU."

"Yes sir."

Peter looked back at the NAC. The chances of the woman using the tunnel to escape were slim. Chances are she knew about her counterparts getting caught, she'd know the tunnel wasn't safe. The question was why hadn't this woman been with the other two? Peter sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Peter?"

"Yeah, Diana?"

"What do you want us to do?"

Peter turned to Diana and Jones – half of their team. "I don't know. I wish I knew what Neal was up to in there."

"I'm sure he's thinking the same thing about you." Jones pointed out.

"Jones has a point, Peter. You two are pretty good at getting in the other's head. I think it's time to put it to the test." Diana suggested. "We'll interview the other two suspects."

"Yeah. Great. Thanks Diana, Jones."

"No problem. Let us know if you need us."

Peter turned back to the burgundy awning. Now all he had to do was get in Neal's Caffrey's head.

His partner's life might depend on it.

0o0o0o0o

Neal stood in the front hallway of the National Arts Club, a gun pointing at him by the woman he had nicknamed Amy. He was standing close to Jeffery's office door, which left Amy's back to the parlour. He consciously focussed on her and not behind her, as he didn't want to give away anything going on in the room they had just left. He glanced at the front doors. The police lights were mildly mesmerising as they reflected against all the surfaces. The etched glass of the front doors and windows refracted the lights in all directions.

Damn he wished Peter were here.

Not even necessarily for his gun. Or his badge. Possibly for his backup. But mostly just for Peter. He could read Peter like a book – most of the time – and he knew Peter could do the same to him, but most of that was reliant on face to face interaction. Most of it. Though there had been that one time at Peter's house when the electricity was out. He'd been able to signal then, though. An SOS message with his anklet.

He almost smiled at his past cleverness and the understanding Peter would figure it out. The assumption that Peter would just _know,_ because that's what Peter did. That's what they had both done for years – known each other exceptionally well, playing an intimate game of cat and mouse.

He tried to think of what Peter would be thinking – what the agent would want Neal to do.

_Not have gone for a walk and ended up in a hostage situation._

Too late, Neal argued with Peter internally.

_Stay safe. Keep other people safe. Be calm._

Done – sort of. Done – mostly. Two out of three isn't bad.

_Listen to me. Do what I say._

So what would Peter say right now? Neal drew a blank. He looked at the gun pointed at him, feeling a slight panic rise from his stomach and move in to his chest. He didn't know. He really didn't.

Neal Caffrey was finally ready to admit that he really didn't know anything.

0o0o0o0o0o

Outside Peter walked the same three paces on the same stretch of cobblestone street. Radios were going off around him. More police were arriving. More FBI agents were arriving. SIU – new York's version of SWAT – was also now here.

But Peter didn't want to do it their way. He knew SIU were the experts; trained for situations like these. Peter was only a FBI agent – not seasoned in hostage taking. But it was his partner in there. SIU was already talking about taking the building.

Taking the building. Already! Peter knew that couldn't be good.

"Sir?"

"What?" Peter snapped at the interruption. Sergeant Campbell stood in front of him, looking slightly nervous. Peter felt a shred of remorse for yelling at the man earlier. He couldn't help but feel he had greatly contributed to an interdepartmental incident.

"I thought you might like to know that my officers have received some people we believe to be some of the hostages. From the tunnel you were talking about."

Peter was stunned for a moment, then smiled. _Neal; you stupid, stupid intelligent idiot_.

"Thanks Sergeant." Peter gave him a nod, holding the other man's gaze. The man nodded back, and with just that Peter knew it was fine. No grudges – one law enforcement agent to another. Peter's partner was in there; he wasn't expected to act rational. Or be polite, for that matter.

Peter looked back at the building, which had been still since the metal security roll down door had been drawn. Five minutes ago there had been a lot of action when the suspect had moved in to the front hall with a hostage at gunpoint. He knew, without looking, who the hostage was. He knew because his stomach told him by wringing itself in knots. Nonetheless, he'd had to check. One look had told him it was, for sure, Neal. And then Neal had lowered the security door. He hadn't, however, locked it according to SafeTech, the alarm monitoring centre.

That idiot. Of course he'd send out everyone else. The only problem was, Peter knew that Neal and the women were in the front hallway when this all happened. This meant the others had likely snuck out, which would not bode well for Neal in the end.

Peter felt proud and sick at the same time.

Didn't he know this wasn't something he could just charm his way out of? Hadn't he been hurt enough over this stupid case? A few days ago Peter had considered teaching the man some self defense tips he'd learned from the academy. Now he was considering cuffing Neal to his desk in the bullpen. At this rate, Neal would be safer back in jail.

Or not, now that he'd been working for the good guys.

Peter sighed, pressing his palms against his eyes. He couldn't think like this, and he _had_ to think. He _had_ to connect – somehow – to Neal. He needed to know what he was thinking, what he was doing. What he wanted Peter to do. He had to get away from the lights and radios. The interruptions. Most of all, he had to get away from the sick feeling in his stomach. The problem was he couldn't go far. He had to be _here._

And then Peter knew what to do. He knew how to connect. He stormed off, frantically searching the expanding crowd behind the yellow police tape. Spotting a distinguished couple, he pulled out his badge and stopped in front of them.

"You two – you live on this block?"

"Uh, yes. We do. Just down the row a bit. Why?"

"Good. I need your key."

"You need our house keys?"

"No. I need your park key. I need to get into Gramercy Park."

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A/N: I would absolutely appreciate reviews – pretty, pretty please!


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